


That's Some Atrocious Breach Of Privacy (Please, Do It Again).

by amorremanet



Series: 22 Weeks Is A Long Time [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Humor, Anxiety Disorder, Body Image, Comfort Sex, Community: chubwinchesters, Community: hc_bingo, Community: kink_bingo, Control Issues, Depression, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, EDNOS, Eating Disorders, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fat Camp, Fat Character, Feeding, Feedism, First Kiss, First Time, Food Issues, Food Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Kink With Plot, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, References to Suicide, Self Loathing, Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Verbal Humiliation, Weight Gain, chubby!Jensen, chubby!kink, fat appreciation, feederism, self-abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 197,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared loves Jensen, an aspiring cartoonist just starting grad school, who has a history of yo-yo dieting and some inexplicable habit of attracting weirdos (though he didn't really get a choice with Danneel). Jensen loves Jared, two years his junior, currently doing a semester abroad at Oxford and entertaining dreams of being Charles Xavier when he grows up. Without completely clueing Jared into what's at play, Jensen wants to put on at least another fifty pounds while Jared's at Oxford, by way of indulging in their mutual kink… This is where Misha comes in.</p><p>Misha is Jensen's best friend, roommate, and fellow grad student. He has some problems with anxiety, emotional awareness (in that he has very little), and nonchalantly committing crimes against nature. Misha's also been in unrequited love with Jensen for four years, and in denial about having an eating disorder for even longer than he realizes. And he's fairly certain that he's pissed off some Supreme Cosmic Power, because between the sexual frustration and his looming relapse, it really looks like the universe is trying to screw him over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Immodest Proposal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen has a harebrained scheme, and Misha epic-fails at denial.

The magazine in Misha's hands wilts as he stares up at his best friend, waiting for Jensen to shout out, "April Fool's!" or, "PUNKED YOU!" or otherwise indicate that he's fucking joking. Misha arches an eyebrow, daring Jensen to _do go on_ , and even gives the boy a long, scrutinizing once-over — Jensen's tall; his features are fine, and sculpted, and, despite his chubby cheeks, still visibly so; his green eyes have a glint to them that suggests he's playing Misha… but the way Jensen has his hands on his soft hips says the opposite.

Misha sighs and tosses the copy of _Psychology Today: For Aspiring Overlords_ to the coffee table. "You're _serious_ …?"

Jensen shuffles his feet and nods. As he shifts around, his snarky t-shirt clings to his middle, screaming for someone to pay attention to it. And sure, Misha knows better than to stare — in the back of his head, that irritating conscience thing takes it upon himself to remind him that Jensen's taken, and his best friend, and totally in love with Jared (just as he's been for the past almost-three years), and incompetent at laundry, so maybe his shirt just shrunk in the wash and Misha really shouldn't ogle — but he can't help it.

He tries to hold Jensen's gaze. Or stare out the window (even though it's gotten dark and not even the changing leaves are particularly interesting by day anyway). Or pretend to be interested in the cartoon rerun that's playing behind Jensen. He shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, preemptively crosses his legs (because sure, he's not hard yet, but Misha doesn't trust his dick to behave itself right now). He tongues at his teeth, bites on his lip, and tries to look like he's just thinking of what to say next… and each attempt at being less awkward brings his eyes back to that gut, Jensen's soft, pudgy, utterly adorable little potbelly.

Before Misha can attempt to think of anything else, his conscience rears up again, reminding him _no, Misha, no; you cannot reach out and touch it, do not even THINK about reaching out and touching it_. And it's too quiet now, so he just lets his mouth run: "I mean… Look, Jen, I'm not opposed or anything — you _know_ I'm not, right? You and Jared are into that, sure, but I mean, I'm not… I — Like I said, I'm not against you being, well… _bigger_ , if that's what you and Jay are cool with, or that's what you guys want to do together, but… yeah, I have no idea what you're talking about. I really don't… You could probably talk to, like… like, someone else about it, though?"

Misha hates how ridiculous he sounds right now, and worse, his utter inability to help his staring makes him _blush_ — an unfortunate biological response that. Blushing usually manages to make him stop doing something… but his eyes keep drifting back to that stupid, _stupid_ shirt that Jensen's wearing. It's nothing special on its own: grey, featuring _Spooning Leads To Forking_ scrawled across his chest in a nauseating shade of pink, complete with a picture of cartoon utensils cuddling… but the most important part, the one Misha can't look away from? It's straining to keep Jensen's stomach contained.

Managing to glance up for just a second, Misha gets treated to an incredulous frown. By way of maintaining his lie of innocence, he forces a smile, and shrugs, and hopes to _God, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Krishna, Satan, Marduk, Tiamat — YOU GUYS OWE ME BIG TIME_ that Jensen believes him. And just as Misha thinks he has a handle on this _goddamn staring problem_ , Jensen has to shift on his feet again, and his belly has to jiggle _just so_ , drawing Misha's eyes right back to where he _should not be looking_ …

Misha doesn't fight a relieved sigh when Jensen chuckles, thereby breaking his belly's hypnotic spell — but when Jensen sits himself down on the coffee table, Misha thinks that okay, maybe telling a bunch of deities that they _owed him big time_ was not one of his better ideas. The military history class he took in his and Jensen's sophomore year all comes flooding back to him and, unfortunately, everything Misha remembers gives him the same depressing conclusion: his best chance of escape is trying to make the couch eat him. Jensen's reflexes are faster than his, Jensen's too close to him (and slouching in just the right way to show off the rolls of fat on his middle)… Short of tackling Jensen, or attempting to, there's no way out.

Feigning a headache could work, though, and Misha doesn't think, just launches into the fake-out: he groans; he rocks forward, resting his elbow on his thigh; he rubs at the bridge of his nose… But he still needs to extinguish this, the most painfully awkward conversation of his entire fucking life. "Seriously, Jenny," he says. "I have no clue what you're talking about… That's not my scene, you know? I'm just… I'm not into fat guys, or like… weight gain on purpose, or any of that — I'm just not."

" _Bullshit_ ," Jensen huffs. He waits until Misha's dropped his hand and looked back up at him, then continues: "Who the Hell are you trying to fool, Meesh? …You're talking to me, remember?"

"Well, considering I haven't sustained any brain damage since you asked me about this… completely harebrained scheme of yours—"

"Then why are you trying to fucking _bullshit me_?"

Misha opens his mouth to answer that question, but has to sigh instead. He wrinkles his nose. Grates his teeth over his lower lip. Shifts his leg around, just to make sure he's still covered in that regard. Awkwardly tries to worm his way further back into the sofa — all this does is make him acutely aware of his own body, specifically of how he's been skiving off the gym for six weeks now, and how he hasn't checked his own weight in he-doesn't-remember-how-long, and how he's still slender — his jeans fit fine, his Marvin the Martian t-shirt has room in it to move, his rotating cast of garish sweaters hang around him; the blue and grey one he has on now might even be a size too big — but Misha knows his inattention's probably catching up with him.

Not by _much_ , at least not that he can tell… Misha crosses his arms over his chest, just to have an excuse to let them rest on his stomach (not perfectly flat, but reasonably so), and he doesn't _feel_ particularly fleshy… But he was still doing so much better, back in May. Tomorrow, when he's gotten himself out of this, he really needs to get his act back together — which, of course, would be easier if Jensen weren't being himself about it. He scoots the coffee table closer to the sofa, his eyes locked on Misha as he leans into Misha's personal space, puts his arms on Misha's knees… As Jensen bends over to do this, he shifts around again, shuffles in a way that can't be unintentional, not for how it dumps his spare tire into his lap and draws Misha's eyes back to staring.

For all it's uncomfortable, and for all he knows he shouldn't, Misha has to wonder whether or not Jensen shrunk this shirt on purpose, just to show off how much weight he's put on since he and Jared discovered this mutual kink of theirs. Fifty pounds, maybe fifty-five, says Misha's half-assed estimate — it's just enough to put Jensen back closer to where he was before their junior year, before that cousin of his pressured him into dieting. He's definitely not back to 230, like he was before Danneel whined at him about how _being the chubby jock in high school doesn't mean you have to go and get fat now_ , whittled him down to 160, at most 165-ish… made him all lean, and angular, and deflated-looking…

Between the tight shirt, the muffin-top (more pronounced now, with Jensen leaning forward), and how obvious his baby double-chin is up-close… Jensen has to know what he's doing, the fucking _tease_. Misha wouldn't put it past Jensen to show off like this… For one thing, it's a kink of his. One he's proud of (especially considering Danneel, and her on-off interference, and how long it took for her to come around), one that drives Jared crazy in the pants…

But, on the other hand, Misha knows Jensen wouldn't flirt with anyone but his boyfriend. He shuffles around again, hugs himself tighter, forces himself to match Jensen's intent stare and remember that the boyfriend might be taking a semester abroad, and that his best friend might have taken a few pages from Misha's book on being an emotionally manipulative bastard, but that Jensen isn't a cheater. Misha's certain of that much — just like he's certain Jensen doesn't _intend_ to make Misha feel sick with the desire to grab one of his love-handles, or one of the rolls of his spare tire, or to just accidentally rub up on Jensen's belly…

Unless he does intend it, which the very un-Jensen-like smirk he gets suggests. "So, you definitely don't have a kink for fat guys, huh, Meesh?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows with enough sexual suggestion to make Jim Kirk seem virginal. "No interest in them whatsoever?"

Misha feels his cheeks twinge pink, feels his stomach churn and tie itself up in knots… Curling his fingers up in his sweater, he shakes his head. He'd snap at Jensen, something or other about how dare he accuse Misha of having a kink and keeping it a secret, and God, Jensen, they're _friends_ , how can he think so poorly of Misha's ability to tell the truth… But those accusations would be true, that mistrust correctly placed, and with Jensen hovering so close, Misha doesn't trust himself not to say something he'll regret.

Something like, _Fuck me rotten, right here, right now, I don't even care if we stain the sofa._

Jensen hums and wrinkles his nose, gives Misha a pensive nod. "So, it's just a coincidence that I overheard you and Jay talking about how _depressing_ it is that Seth and Jonah dropped a few sizes before he left for Oxford?"

Misha shrugs, shakes his head. "We were just saying that the theatre department's not going to be able to go through with Genevieve's idea of putting on the entire Prince Hal cycle next year," he says, and even he doesn't believe himself. Jensen arches an eyebrow so high that it threatens to jump off his face, but Misha presses on: "Well, I mean… she fought so hard for it, you know? I'm pretty sure she had to blackmail some of the professors to sign off… and then her top two choices for Falstaff go and get skinny? Her prospective budgets didn't count for how much padding would cost, and sure, she could find someone else… but Seth and Jonah would've really _embodied_ Falstaff… Anybody else just wouldn't be the _same_."

"So, you're telling me that my boyfriend's developed some… totally random Shakespeare scholarship obsession out-of-nowhere and I didn't hear anything about it until now?"

"…well, can you blame him for being concerned about his cousin's project, Jen? …You know how he is — he's a _carer_ , and when he's invested in something, he's _really invested_ in it, and… he's just a sweetheart like that. It's not about the Shakespeare; it's about how much work Gen's done on this."

"You know that Jay probably thinks Prince Hal is the name of a pizza joint, right?"

"I don't really think… I mean, I know he's more into science and stuff—"

"Microbiology, Misha," Jensen interjects, everything about his expression and his slouch unimpressed. "Virology and genetics and trying to be Professor X when he grows up… right down to the Oxford shit."

"Right. Exactly. Jared's more into microbiology than literature or whatever, but… you're so not giving him enough credit here—"

Jensen deadpans, "On our first date, he asked me if Macbeth played soccer with David Beckham."

"So he's _ditzy_ sometimes — you _love_ that about him—" Misha pauses, forces a grin and idly waves his hands in front of him, waiting for Jensen to agree. All he gets is a nod and a dreamy smile, and… well, that's mostly enough for him. "I mean, think about it from his side of things, Jen: he didn't really have a reason to _know_ about Macbeth, or remember it from AP English or whatever… but he loves his cousin, so of course he'd listen to her going on about _those_ plays, and of _course_ he'd remember random details, and—"

"And it's totally just… random happenstance that you have a bunch of shots from Leonard Nimoy's 'Full Body Project' on one of your external hard drives?" — Misha stammers for a moment, shivers, feels the color draining from his face. He's almost _grateful_ when Jensen cuts him off: "And don't even try to tell me that you just have them because you're in love with Spock, or you had some project to write up for _The Gryphon_ …"

Misha has no desire to contest that — despite his _personal_ interest in the pictures, he _does_ love Spock, and he _did_ write about Mister Nimoy's photography for their alma mater's student-run newspaper. He even lets himself get comfortable… then Jensen has to sucker-punch him: "I _know_ about your fanfic, Meesh. Like the one where Kirk's uniform doesn't fit and Spock's totally ogling him?"

 _Please, Jesus, let me wake up now… Sweet, merciful God, if you let this be a nightmare, I swear, I'll stop trying to bring DeForrest Kelley back from the dead… Bajoran Prophets, if you're out there, I'll take ANY HELP I CAN GET_ — Misha's not the praying type, never has been… but he lets himself keep hoping. This can't really be happening. He's probably passed out somewhere, and his subconscious is torturing him, and _this cannot be happening_.

But it _is_ , and Jensen keeps talking at him: "…And the one where Lupin's chocolate habit catches up with him, but Sirius and Snape are weirdly into it, and there's some wacky love triangle thing? Then Tonks gets involved and it's more of a quadrangle? Then they all have an orgy? …And the one where Edward and Jacob—"

"I got commissioned to write those!" Misha only realizes what he's said once the words are out there, and immediately, he starts back-tracking: "I mean… just… I've been commissioned to write fanfic before, sort of… Not like _those fanfics_ , specifically — The money went to charity, though, so it was totally above-board—"

"You are _such. a. liar_!" Smirking again, Jensen reaches up and tweaks Misha's nose — and the way he moves just _has_ to involve leaning against Misha's legs, letting him _feel_ how soft Jensen's chest has gotten. With a snicker, he slinks up further, and plops onto Misha's lap, straddling his hips in a way that, with anybody else, would probably lead to making out.

Except that Jensen isn't interested in Misha — he's just Misha's roommate since they got paired in a double back in freshman year. He's just Misha's best friend, the best friend Misha's ever had… Theirs is about the only relationship Misha can't afford to screw up.

And, sure, Misha's face flushes, and _Misha_ feels the uncomfortable twisting of trying _so hard_ to fight off getting hard, and _Misha's_ certain that his complexion probably resembles a tomato… But he's platonically climbed on Jensen plenty of times before, so he's kind of had this coming to him. …And, besides, Jensen's playful, boyish smile isn't the one that he wears for flirting with Jared. It's the one he wears when he's about to prank someone, or when he and Misha spend a Saturday getting stoned and watching Star Trek, or when he's reached a notable milestone in putting on weight and, instead of getting snippy, Danneel says that he looks good.

…but he's _so close_ to Misha now — and it's not that Misha's never dreamt of having his lap full of Jensen's jiggly, perfect ass, because he has… But it was never supposed to really _happen_. Misha chokes on a breath, gasps, splutters… He's accepted that nothing like this would ever happen… But Jensen's _here_ , and Misha can make out all the individual freckles on his face, and Jensen is just so… _Jensen_. His belly rubs against Misha's lap, and briefly brushes against Misha's own stomach. On either side of his space, Misha has Jensen's porky, pliant thighs pressing in on his own lean ones — and through it all, Jensen's _grinning_ at him, and waggling his eyebrows like _he knows something_ — Obviously, whatever he knows is not that he's making Misha need to run screaming for a cold shower.

"I — I have _no earthly idea_ what you're talking about, Jen," Misha says with a sigh, trying not to wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like.

Jensen groans — he rolls his eyes and flops forward, lets his face hit Misha's shoulder, and, even worse, his paunch knocks into Misha again — and, bitch that he's being tonight, Jensen just stays there. He laughs against Misha's neck, and much as Misha wants to enjoy the sound of Jensen's laugh — all sweet and jangling and uninhibited like it is… not to mention the way it never fails to make Misha feel like he's basking in the sun — it's just… _Oh, God_ — Misha wants to focus. Wants to just keep his mind on Jensen's laugh… but he can't, not with Jensen leaning into him, and _definitely_ not with his belly squishing down on Misha's and shaking every time he laughs, jiggling with his breaths and _so. goddamn. close_ …

 _Fuck my life,_ Misha muses, biting on his lower lip and glancing up at the ceiling. _Okay, maybe trying to make a DeForrest Kelley zombie was ill-advised, but… there's no way that I deserve this shit_ — Misha digs his teeth in harder. His toes curl up without his consent and there comes that hot, twisting rush in his stomach again — _Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, goddamn it, fuck, I — nuns. Old, wrinkled nuns with withered tits. My Little Pony. My Little Pony nuns. My Little Pony nuns burning down an orphanage. Margaret Thatcher, Margaret Thatcher, MARGARET THATCHER_ — That works enough to keep Misha limp, but while he's focusing on his dick, he forgets about his hands.

His left hand jumps up onto Jensen's stomach, presses into his flesh… Misha doesn't even realize what he's doing until he's grabbed onto one of the rolls on Jensen's middle, until he has a handful of Jensen's fat. He tries to meet Jensen's gaze, he really does, but… Misha can't make himself do it. As he kneads at the flab in his hand, working it around between his thumb and fingers, Misha closes his eyes. His face burns hotter than it has all night, and he knows that he should _stop_ … but it's been _months_ since he and Jeff broke up — _ages_ since he's gotten laid at all, much less gotten to stuff someone or feel their belly rubbing up on him… And he's spent all this time watching Jared get Jensen bigger, fatter… watching them wrap measuring tape around Jensen's waist, and his hips… watching Jared do what Misha wanted to be doing himself…

When Jensen grabs his wrist, Misha just lets his other hand go — he drops it to Jensen's hip, splays his fingers over Jensen's love handle, teases him at the spot where Jensen's pudge spills over the waistband of his jeans… Trying to fight his arousal's pointless: Misha brushes his finger underneath Jensen's waistband, feels the warm, deep groove where his jeans have dug into his flesh and started chafing. For all he can't see Jensen's face, Misha doesn't sense him fighting this — he doesn't gasp, or tense up, or yank Misha's wrist away — He doesn't try to pry Misha's fingers off his stomach; he even shimmies a little, jutting his hip further into Misha's free hand and grinding his _perfect goddamn jiggly fleshy gut_ against Misha — And Jared's been gone to Oxford for almost three weeks, so… Misha can't really say he blames Jensen for needing the contact.

Groaning, Misha _finally_ gets hard and, since he's screwed anyway, he moves his hand around and sneaks it underneath the hem of Jensen's t-shirt, palming at his best friend's warm, soft paunch… _Jesus God, Jared does good work…_ Sure, Misha got Jeff up to two-eighty-eight by the time they broke up — he got Jeff up a hundred pounds from where they started out, and Richard went from one-forty to two-thirty before they went their separate ways, and Genevieve put on as much weight as Jeff had in a little over nine months… But, _oh, sweet Jesus fuck-sticks, the work that Jared's done on Jensen…_

Even if Jensen's still smaller than he got back in sophomore year, he's definitely softer than he was then. His belly's bigger, but less taut… Less prone to sticking straight out ahead of him… Then there's his thighs, which he digs against Misha's, letting Misha feel just how _plump_ they've gotten, how much tone they've lost — He slides his ass along Misha's legs again, and tightens his thighs' grip on Misha's hips and lap… There's almost no muscle underneath the flab anymore, at least not that Misha can feel… He knows that he's been bad enough, letting his hands get on Jensen's body, and that he shouldn't push back against Jensen, grinding his legs against his friend's… but Jensen's thighs are just so _soft_ , so _fleshy_ now — Misha's sure he'll draw blood if he bites on his lip any harder and it still doesn't deter him from rubbing into Jensen's legs.

Out of nowhere, images of Jensen from freshman year flashes through Misha's head: he'd been an all-state varsity star in high school; a mix soccer, football, and track had been the only thing keeping him from getting fat, and the only reason he hadn't put on weight during the summer was that his Mama Ackles kept him on a diet and an exercise plan… When the semester started, he had abs that every jock around campus envied, a tight ass that everyone on their hall tried to grope at least once, powerful and muscular thighs… Then came the beer, and the overeating, and the belly… And he was always good looking. And the weight he gained got spread out eventually, but… Jensen's thighs have _never_ been so perfect…

He's chubbier all over, now that he's been with Jared. Less _round_ but _curvier_ , his physique more gluttonous and out of shape, and all that Misha wants is to get his hands on every part of Jensen's body…

Jensen grabs onto Misha's free wrist. Misha's eyes shoot open, and he starts spitting out apologies as quickly come to mind: "Jen — Jensen, I'm so sorry, I swear to God, I didn't mean to — it's not what it… I wouldn't ever do that to you and Jay, I just wasn't thinking, and you — I mean — I didn't — I'm so, _so_ fucking sorry, I just—"

Misha's cheeks twinge pink and he cuts himself off as the realization smacks him upside the head: Jensen's started laughing again.

Misha wrinkles his nose and glances down at Jensen's head on his shoulder. He furrows his brow, and frowns, barely avoids whining, when staring at the back of Jensen's neck doesn't help him see what's so funny about this situation.

Just to put some distance between their bodies, Misha sucks in his own stomach and leans further back into the couch — and once he's there, he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, tries to focus on his breathing like Kevin The Meditation Group Leader always says. Tries to avoid moving as if there's a predator that's going to eat him unless he's perfectly still. And, for a solid two minutes, he listens to Jensen's raucous laughter.

When he finally gets ahold of himself and sits up, Jensen jerks Misha's nose around again, and doesn't apologize when he accidentally makes it hurt. "So, I'm just…" Jensen pauses, letting out another little laugh. As he drags Misha's hands up to eye-level, he smirks. "So… you don't have a kink for fat guys, not at all… and I didn't just catch you feeling my fat ass up… and I'm totally imagining that every single one of your exes got, like, crazy fat while they were dating you?"

Misha sighs and looks down at their laps… well, at the little sliver of lap that's not blocked out by Jensen's belly. He mutters a half-assed apology for lying, and when Jensen points out that he couldn't hear that, Misha just asks, "When'd you figure it out?"

He doesn't need to look at Jensen to know his best friend wants to meet that with something snarky, but Misha cuts him off: "I mean… okay, sure, I've told the people I've been with — the ones that lasted more than a night, anyway… And yeah, Jared sort of figured it out, you know, when his cousin started dating me and she _ballooned_ —"

"Well, yeah, it's kinda hard to miss some five-four chick going from one-twenty to two-ten…"

"She actually got up to two-twelve-and-a-half, and I think a little heavier after we broke up, but _her_ diet's, you know… been _working_ — Katherine's probably plotting to kill me, she's only gotten bigger since we broke up and she _wanted_ to lose some of the weight, you know… get down from two hundred to maybe one-seventy-five-ish, but I might've broken her metabolism a little and… oh my _God_ , this can't be happening, I mean, I… I told them all to keep it under wraps, I must've sworn Jared to secrecy about twenty times, he even promised to keep it from you and I had to _bribe_ him for that, and, oh, wow, I'm just completely rambling now, aren't I, Jesus Christ, Misha, just shut up already…"

Heaving a sigh, Misha banged his head against the sofa — which didn't _hurt_ , at least not much, but the exertion of it made him feel better… until Jensen shook his wrists and snapped at him to knock it off. Jensen went quiet then, waited for Misha to look at him before he asked, "why're you so wound up about this, Meesh? So you're kinda kinky — it's no big deal… and hey, I've got the same kink, right? And we're best friends? Why be scared of admitting it to me, of all people?"

Misha shakes his head and looks back down at Jensen's belly, mutters, "It's not important, Jen."

Jensen sighs, jostling Misha's wrists again. "If it's got you down, then it's _totally_ important — and if there's something wrong or whatever? Then you've gotta let me help you—"

" _Jensen_!" Struggling against Jensen's hold, Misha gets him to show up — _thank, God_. Huffing, shaking his head again, Misha locks eyes with Jensen again and says, "Look… It doesn't really have me down — _it doesn't_. And it's just… you know, old stuff I have to deal with sometimes… And if you really, _really_ want to help me, then let's go back to that part where you wanted help fattening up for Jay, and… well… I'll kind of need a shower first, though?"

Jensen tilts his head and stares at Misha with utter deer-in-the-headlights innocence.

Even when Misha shuffles beneath him — _intentionally_ trying to knock his erect dick into Jensen's legs — and even when Misha gives their lap a _Pointed Glance_ , it takes a long, arduous moment for the point to penetrate Jensen's skull.

At least, once it does, Jensen doesn't stand in Misha's way, and he scrambles for the bathroom to the sound of Jensen calling after him, "So I'll meet you at the dinner table later, then…?"

 

 

As he gets himself off in his arctic-level cold, absolutely freezing shower, Misha has to think that _only Jensen Fucking Ackles_ would all but get someone off through their jeans and come out still thinking that Misha's feelings for him are entirely platonic, that he only got turned on because he had a fat guy in his lap and not because he'd been living with a crush the size of Jupiter since before Jensen had even gained the Freshman Fifteen.

On the one hand, Misha's perfectly happy not to have that conversation tonight.

On the other, and as Misha reminds himself while toweling off his hair and changing into his new t-shirt and boxers, these secret crush things never work out. It doesn't matter if you live in the real world, a romantic comedy, a zombie movie, or the _USS Enterprise_ : secret crushes _always_ come out, and they _always_ do it by exploding in everyone's collective face, and the longer he puts off letting it out of the box, the worse the eventual explosion's going to be.

But the important thing tonight is this harebrained scheme Jensen's gone and cooked up — the patent ridiculousness of which Misha wastes no time in pointing out, even while ferreting around the cupboards for things he can use to enable Jensen.

Pulling out the blender, Misha says: "I mean, I meant it when I said I'm not opposed to you wanting to put on weight, Jen…" And turning to where he remembers stashing an extra thing of high-calorie, chocolate-flavored protein powder (his payment that, purportedly, was going to keep Jared from ratting him out to Jensen): "And… well. We both know you're going to do it whether you have my help or not. And it really _is_ sweet that you want to surprise Jared, but…"

Misha trails off, and wrinkles his nose at the contents of the cupboard, which include spices, cereal boxes, a plastic container that holds Jared's collection of cartoon character-shaped spoons that change color in milk and oatmeal, and everything _but_ what Misha wants. Sighing, he looks over his shoulder at Jensen and asks, "You and Jay have used powder before, right? …Is it _chocolate-flavored_? …Where d'you keep it hidden?"

Jensen points him in the right direction — to the pantry — and as he ferrets around, Misha picks up where he left off: "I just… I want to be sure this is on-the-level before I get my nose all up in your relationship, you know? Meaning, I mostly want to make sure that I'm not, like… enabling some self-conscious thing where you think you're not fat enough, or Jay's going to leave you when he gets back unless you put on X-however-many-pounds…"

"Oh, _God_ , Meesh, _no_!" — Once he has his hands on the powder, Misha gives Jensen a shrug and an easy smile by way of saying, _hey, man, I just have to make sure_. He goes back to gathering his ingredients, and as he does so, he gets a speech that he _seriously_ hopes Jensen's practiced: "I mean… I appreciate the concern and all. I do, especially since I know I haven't always been totally content with how I look… but it's not just for Jay, you know?"

Sighing, Misha starts assembling his concoction, dumping massive scoops of the Ackles-Padalecki carton of high-calorie, chocolate-flavored protein powder into the blender. Next comes the ice cream, then the milk, the Hershey's syrup, ice cubes, sugar, a dash of extra powder — and Jensen just keeps going:

"Sure, yeah, he loves my fat ass best when it's fat, sure, and dude, he enables putting on weight better than living in the dorm with the all-you-can-eat dining hall did… but I _know_ it's more important that I'm comfortable with my body and like… I've been all over the map on this one. Fat kid, jock, chubby, beer gut, totally skinny when Dani got her hands on me… but I'm happiest when I'm bigger, you know? And if putting some extra flab on this gut makes Jay happy too—" (Misha glances over just in time to see Jensen holding his belly with both hands, shaking it for emphasis.) "—well, then, I call that a win-win."

As he slams on the top and turns the blender on, Misha can't help rolling his eyes. _Fucking seriously, Jensen…_ — who the Hell talks like that _without_ rehearsing it first? _He's probably had to give that speech to Danneel, his parents, that freaking sister of him… God, I hope he wasn't ad libbing…_

It's not until Misha sits a recycled Mega-Quench cup full of milkshake before him that Jensen asks what it is. He sniffs at it experimentally, but, ever himself, doesn't wait for Misha's answer before taking a sip. With a sigh and a (smaller) cup of his own, Misha takes the seat next to Jensen and explains: "Well, obviously, it's a completely delicious, mad scientist compound designed to pack as many calories as possible into one beverage."

"'s good," Jensen agrees, coming out of his long sip with a strip of milkshake stuck to his upper lip… not that it stays here for long. Once he's licked it off, he says, "Seriously, dude, this is _awesome_ — where'd you get it?"

"Richard and I came up with it when we first started dating." Misha shrugs and takes a sip of his drink — just a little one. It's not really here for him; he just has to wait for Jensen to finish his, so he can fake like he's not going to finish it… The plan's foolproof — at least, none of Misha's exes has ever complained — and it's guaranteed to bombard Jensen with calories.

"It's sort of a cute story, I guess…" Misha continues, taking another sip and watching Jensen guzzle his own. "He found out that I was the reason why Matt put on like… the Freshman Fifty-Five, and turns out, Richard's always wanted to try this out. So, cut to about a month in, and he's only put on, like… five, maybe six pounds — and, sure, he's _tiny_ , but it's barely even showing. Even with his shirt off, we could hardly tell. …So, turns out: he's a Food Network junkie, and one night, he goes on Paula Deen's section on the website or whatever—"

Jensen looks up from his drink, wrinkling his nose like an irritated kitten. "You mean that crazy butter lady?"

Misha sighs. Nods. Confirms that, yes, he means the crazy butter lady. "Turns out, she had a really good milkshake recipe on there… We just sort of augmented it. Change the flavor, add some stuff to add more calories — _especially_ the protein powder, that's important…" Shrugging again, Misha takes another sip and it's only when he comes up from it that he realizes it went on for longer than he'd intended — _dammit, Misha_ , he chides himself, _we are enabling Jensen, not trying to pork out ourselves_ … Still, he winds up taking another sip, and then another after that.

…Well, it's not _Misha's_ fault that he and Richard invented something tasty.

"Anyway," he concludes for Jensen, "it's been a staple of how I fattened up all my exes since Richard, and since you want to get bigger while Jay's abroad… Why not start here?"

Jensen gives him another confused frown. "…you're not gonna make me weigh in or take initial measurements first?"

Misha shakes his head. "You have to do those in the morning, so they're more accurate. If you do them at night, they can get augmented by how much you ate or didn't, or if you got bloated during the day or something… Trust me, you'll be happier if we wait — speaking of… how much weight were you thinking of putting on, exactly?"

Jensen shrugs. "I dunno… I was thinking of going up to two-seventy? Maybe two-eighty? Y'know, enough to get my fat ass really, _properly_ fat, but not enough to mean Jared doesn't get to knock me up a few more pounds ever again… I was at two-fifteen when he left — two-fifteen, two-sixteen, something like that — but tomorrow'll be a moment of truth for both of us, I guess… I mean, the scale we used was his, and I don't have it, and I kind of haven't been on one since he crossed The Pond, I think I'm heavier but fuck if I know for sure…"

He keeps talking, musing at length about how he's been eating, and how much he _trusts_ Misha to help him with this, and how much it means to him that Misha said yes — but for all he smiles and nods, Misha doesn't pay attention all that well. He just gets caught up watching Jensen alternately sip and chug his milkshake, watching him lick any little bits that dribble away from his lips, trying to imagine what he'll look like at his goal weight, how soft his belly's going to get…

The only downside to this, Misha doesn't notice until it's too late… but when he glances at his glass and finds it empty, he can't get too flustered. He didn't drink _that_ much milkshake, he figures, and besides: listening to Jensen's ideas for getting bigger makes everything seem better… even if Misha never, ever wants to repeat the way they got here. _Ever_.


	2. An Immodest Proposal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: Misha is skinny, and Jensen is not; Jensen has one longstanding, steady boyfriend, and Misha's a serial monogamist; Misha cooks, and Jensen would rather eat; and, despite him being several timezones and an ocean away, Jared's ridiculous ideas about life, the universe, and everything influence… well. Everything.

Jensen wakes up hungry.

Not that that's out of the ordinary for him. Hell, about the only times he doesn't wake up hungry are after he's been stuffed — which hasn't happened since Jared left to chase his dream of growing up to found a team of super-powered mutants, or whatever his inner child and his inner Serious Business Future Scientist have decided they should aspire to this week.

But today's different than the usual way in which Jensen wakes up hungry.

First of all, and most importantly: his growling belly rouses him before his alarm clock does — a good half-hour before the it's even scheduled to go off, and at least forty-five minutes before Jensen really _wants_ to get out of bed. It isn't that he's _lazy_ … but it's Saturday, his and Misha's last free Saturday before their Big Bad Graduate Student Classes start, and fuck everything, Jensen wants to _fucking sleep_.

Supplementing his gut's sudden attack of enthusiasm: for the first time in ages, Jensen's hungry and doesn't feel like he's been fed at all, which is weird (to say the least, considering how he eats). He has an awful, worming feeling, like his stomach's about to collapse from the lack of food in it… Yawning, Jensen scratches at his belly, flops around until he's comfortable again, and draws his blanket up a little further.

Idly, he tries to come up with a list of everything he ate yesterday, because he's _certain_ that there's no reason he should feel so fucking empty… **Breakfast:** two slices of toast (whole wheat, dry), two cups of coffee (black) and a massive glass of milk, two bars of chocolate from his Stash (the all-natural, 48% cocoa kind that donated money to help endangered animals or whatever), and all of it centered around a magnificent five-egg omelette…

Not as good a five-egg omelette as Jared makes, but hey, Jensen tried and that counts for something in his book. He took it filled with ham, and cheese, green peppers, onions, mushrooms… It might've almost been vaguely good for him, too, had he not used whole milk to mix in with the eggs. Or full-calorie, full-fat, not-even-a-little-bit-augmented-to-be-healthier-for-you, "I can totally believe it's butter, since… well, it's _butter_." …And had he not followed it by meeting Gen and Dani at McD's and throwing two sausage-egg-and-cheese Mc-Heart-Attacks, three orders of hash-browns (plus Danneel's when she didn't want to finish them), and a large Coke into the mix.

 

**Lunch:** four-and-a-half plates of food at the pan-Asian buffet down on Cherry Street, not counting the coconut sticky rice he ordered for dessert. More importantly than the number of times he cleared the buffet, each one of the platters got so loaded up that Jensen had to worry about spilling as he made his way back to the table. Aside from the plate he didn't manage to clean, he didn't lose any food, not even on his shirt — and he only didn't finish those helpings because of the _looks_ he'd started getting about halfway through his second course.

Even thinking about them now sends a shiver coursing up Jensen's spine — he loves his extra weight, he does… but when Jared left for England, Jensen didn't expect he'd have any trouble standing up to the naysayers without his boy behind him. Yesterday proved him wrong, and he doubts it helped him any that the people judging him wouldn't just come out and _say_ that they thought he was a big, sloppy fat-ass. Thinking back on it all, he can't remember anything, save for the frowns he attracted, the arched eyebrows, the unsubtly cleared throats — not even what he ate, or how much of it, or why he didn't bother jotting notes down in his journal.

The closest he gets to recalling what he wants to know is, out of what seems like nowhere, getting a flash of images: one plate with a heap of food on it. An empty plate in, according to the watch Jared gave him for his last birthday, about four minutes. Another plate — and it's clean in six minutes. Maybe seven. Jensen can't really make out the finer details in his memory of where the watch's hands stood. All he knows is that, if he can trust these thoughts, then he apparently spent Forced Employee Bonding Super Mega-Awesome Lunchtime Fun Hour acting less like a person and more like a vacuum cleaner.

Maybe more like the one Hungry, Hungry Hippo in every game whose player is just a total fucking tool.

But he prefers the vacuum cleaner analogy. Not by much, since it's still a shitty thing to be, but at least there's some kind of dignity in vacuum cleaning. You don't have a plastic stick up your ass and some annoying, shit-head kids banging on it to make you eat little marble things.

In his defense: Jensen hadn't _meant_ to pig out as much as he did — he'd been planning on having a _good_ lunch, but saving more room for dinner. How much he ate wasn't his fault, though — how could it be? _It wasn't even a completely conscious thing_. He hadn't meant to end up at the buffet at all, but, well… once he was there, he hated most of the people he was being forced to eat with, so he started thinking about Jared instead. Jensen thought about that huge, dorky smile — the one Jared had plastered to his face whenever they went out to eat anywhere, and whenever Jensen let him go up to the buffet and come back with whatever he wanted to feed Jensen at this meal, and whenever Jensen made his little whine for attention and Jared dropped everything he was doing to rub at his belly…

Jensen sighs and tries to lose himself in his blankets. Tries not to think too much about how he would've had a better lunch if he'd gone with the original plan: meeting Misha and Vicki for pizza together down at Friendly's, and taking an extra long lunch break to hang out with the Collins twins, because this was probably the last Friday where Jensen could get away with that. Aside from not getting stared at by all but two of his coworkers, Jensen would've been able to just kick back… relax… maybe even get himself a daiquiri, lazily having two slices (maybe three) for every one that Misha allowed himself, enjoying the company of two people, his _friends_ , who wouldn't have stared at him like he was some kind of monster while he got busy stuffing his face…

But Lauren and Alona, his fellow incoming grad students, the coworkers he actually _likes_ , just had to drag Jensen along with them.

Understandably, they didn't want to be alone with Dr. Stephens and his entourage of brown-nosing kiss-ups; Jensen can't begrudge them that… As he curls up under his comforter, though, (for all it's a poor substitute for Jared's cuddles), he wishes that he'd tried harder to stand up to them. With every plate he brought back to the table, at least one person eyed him as if to say, _Really, Tubby? You really need all that food? Oink oink oink… Fatty, fatty, two-by-four, shoveling food through something-or-other-that-rhymes-with-door… So, let me guess: you've got a tapeworm? A medical condition? You surgically had a black hole implanted in your stomach — stop me if I guess it, Ackles… Hey, Jenny Thunder: what has two thumbs and needs to go on a fucking diet? YOU. YOU NEED TO GO ON A FUCKING DIET._

Stephens was the worst about it, getting all sorts of twisted, condescending expressions on his smug, bony face. He refused to just own up to what he wanted to say, but was worse than the silent parties by throwing in all sorts of offhand sneers at Jensen's expense — _What do you think about the new proposal about undergrad work-study hours, Jen? It'd be a pretty HUGE improvement, wouldn't you say … Oh, come on, big guy. Don't tell me you've never seen an ice cream sundae that you didn't eat…_

The worst part, even worse than the fact that the jackass has tenure, is that Stephens remembers Jensen being skinny.

He's been working with his "new" boss-cum-graduate studies advisor since even before Jared applied to the Oxford program. The Doc took Jensen on as a junior teacher's aide last year, which meant that Jensen got to get his coffee, make his copies, and fill in for the _"real"_ TAs when they needed sick-days… And that Stephens got to watch Jensen's waistline start expanding. Got to see Jared come calling on Jensen's days working the Doc's receptionist's desk and probably the inevitable feeding that ensued, the way Jared wouldn't stop until he'd gotten Jensen's belly a little bit distended, the covert caresses Jared snuck to Jensen's belly…

True, Jensen can't say for sure if the Doc saw anything when Jared came around. Unfortunately for that case, his memories of Jared's visits mostly consist of Jared kissing him, and forking large helpings into his mouth, and insisting that he didn't care if Jensen brought his own lunch or how much food Jensen had packed for himself. _I just woooooorry about you, pookie bear_ , Jared faux-cooed, half-whined, letting his voice go all high and nasally like some girl from his literature lecture, whom he apparently hated for the crime of getting called on more often than he did. _I mean, I hate seeing you so stressed, and I know you haven't been eating enough — don't you dare try to tell me that you have, you look so thiiiiiiin…_

Sure, it was bullshit — Jensen _knew_ it was bullshit, and so did anybody else who'd ever seen him and Jay together in the dining halls, or having their date nights down at one of the local diners, pizza joints, or sharing an ice cream in Pendelton Park. Hell, anyone with two working neurons could've taken one look at Jensen, at his burgeoning love-handles and the increasing curve of his belly, at how much his ass had started straining the seats of all his jeans, and even if it was their first time seeing him, they would've known that anything Jared said was total crap. …But Jared just got so adorably involved in the fake-lies that Jensen couldn't find it in him to deny his boy some fun.

…Besides: if Jensen played along well enough, he got a dessert that involved trading blow jobs in the nearest unoccupied closet, most often the one where Stephens stashed his filing cabinets. And nothing, _absolutely nothing_ , took the edge off of the Doc's douchebaggery like getting action in, and leaving suspicious stains all over, his neatly ordered piles of junk.

 

**Dinner:** Salad, albeit one that Vicki drenched in ranch dressing without needing to ask, even though, when she came over for dinner, Jensen was still more aware of his weight than usual. Instead of feeling simply tight, like it did most often, his t-shirt felt like he'd been forced into it, like it had taken lessons on how to constrict a person from the world's tiniest, tightest corset; his jeans, likewise, felt like they'd explode off of him. He knew the thing rode up on his stomach, but the way his nerves were getting to him, the sliver of exposed skin might as well have left Jensen completely exposed.

At one point, while he and his sister fussed around with the main course, Misha made some (mostly) innocent comment about how much he hated some overcompensating dick-hole coworker under _his_ advisor… and until he had Misha repeat it, Jensen would've sworn that he'd heard something or other calling him _big guy_ , talking about his _Buddha belly_ … Jen even briefly considered faking sick to get out of eating dinner.

That desire disappeared when Vicki dished him up his first huge helping of lasagna… but he still got shaken by what his brain had tricked him into hearing. That feeling didn't completely go away until Vicki went back to her and Dani's place, leaving with some cute crack about how Jensen had better watch out for her brother.

_You know_ , she said with a shrug, that playful smirk that has to run in their family because hers looks just like Misha's — _Just watch out for him, capiche, Jenny Thunder? Make sure you feed him, and change his water, and take him out for walkies… Make sure he behaves himself and doesn't stay out too late… Oh! And don't let him steal your food or anything, skinny. Having him turn into Misha Claus while you starve to death? I absolutely will not stand for it._

(Misha, for his part, stayed on the couch and tried his best to act like the magazine had his complete and undivided attention… but still flipped her the middle finger and told Jensen to please kindly ask his sister to go drown herself in the sink.)

The thing is, Jensen's had Misha on his side, unfailingly so, for almost five years, even before he outed Misha's kinkiness and before they had their, "fuck yeah, let's fatten you up and surprise your boyfriend" milkshakes. They were two of the only guys on their hall who actually _liked_ their freshman roommate assignment. Misha didn't kill him when Jensen talked him into playing Ultimate Frisbee in the snow, even though that idea landed him in the ER with a broken leg; and in retrospect, Jensen probably overreacted to Misha making him go to a Halloween midnight showing of _Rocky Horror_ dressed up as Riff-Raff. Sure, he wanted to go as Brad, but Misha _insisted_ on going as Magenta, and drama queen that he can be, he refused to go without a Riff-Raff… And since they had fun before their costume contest victory got announced, Jensen counts the whole experience as a win.

Jensen absolutely does not exaggerate when he says that Misha is his best friend.

Most importantly of all, though, Misha's on a short list of people who Jensen knows would never judge him. No matter what size he's been, he's had Misha there for him… The only time Misha's treated Jensen differently because of his weight happened last night, when he started copping feels, and it's not like it's _his_ fault that Jensen resorted to drastic measures to get the truth out of him.

And, sure, he isn't Jared… But for that one moment when it seemed that Misha was mocking him, Jensen felt like begging the earth to swallow him whole.

 

Just thinking of that feeling makes Jensen's stomach churn — not in the pleasant way it gets after a hearty meal, either. This just reminds him of how hungry he is, how his stomach thinks there's nothing in it… Sighing, Jensen reaches for The Stash, a box of snacks kept at his bedside. He pokes around in it, takes five Oreos out of an open package (and smiles when he sees the orange frosting of the seasonal Halloween ones).

There's no earthly reason for his stomach to be pitching such a fit, but… whatever. He'll indulge it. It's what Jay would want. It's what Jensen wants, too, a fact that he remembers as he pops the first cookie in his mouth and feels it flooding his tongue with that mix of chocolate, and sugar, and tons of processed chemicals whose names he can't pronounce…

And sure, the rest of the cookies stick to his teeth, even after he brushes his tongue up on the enamel and worms it through the crevices, tries to pry the little clumps of wet, tasty sludge off… _Sure_ , they don't taste completely right without a giant glass of milk and, were he around to hear Jensen ramble about this, Jared would probably have a good laugh about how Jensen's such a total five-year-old, at heart.

And if Misha whines about him throwing off the initial weigh-in because he had a couple cookies, then… Jensen will do something to get revenge. Not put NAIR in Misha's shampoo, not after the last time — he looks weird bald, and that's probably a little bit too much retribution — but… hey, he could probably talk Gen, Danneel, and Vicki into something. Some mild-mannered adventure in making Misha's life Hell for a week or two.

Jensen yawns and clings to one of his spare pillows, crushing it in an embrace, trying to think of what kind of prank would really get at Misha… It might not even need to be that complicated. Tossing a red sock in a load of whites would probably just get Misha stoked on having an excuse to wear pink, but… Jensen could shrink Misha's jeans in the wash.

…Though, that could too easily get dangerous: Misha wears them tight and slim-fitted to begin with; any smaller, and they'd probably cut off his circulation. Jensen just wants to pick on him (maybe), not accidentally send Misha to the emergency room (again). …And toying with Misha's meticulously organized DVDs would take a lot of time and energy. His reaction would probably be worth it, like opening up his _X-Men: First Class_ case and finding that copy of _Love, Actually_ he likes to pretend no one knows he has… but there's better things for Jensen to do with his time.

Better like stuffing his face. Or sleeping. Or telling Misha to make him a batch of those brownies of his, the ones with the chocolate chips and peanut butter swirl that he always donates to charity bake sales. Or rubbing at his own post-meal tummy, since Jared's not here to do it for him, splaying those huge, gorgeous hands across Jensen's gut and, without seeming to try that hard, finding every single tender spot, giving it exactly the kind of attention it needs. There's Jensen's constant task of looking for some new trick, _any_ new trick, to help him get as fat as possible for Jay's return… But, even so… Misha's been too serious lately. He needs a good pranking.

Jensen sighs, unleashes a half-groan into his pillow, mutters a string of _goddamn it_ 's _fuck you, brain_ 's at how he's too awake to sleep, but too sleepy to think about the right prank to unleash on Misha. There's a perfect stunt out there, somewhere, if he actually ends up needing one… He's probably just too tired for this right now. Stupid damn demanding stomach and its insistence on trying to wake him up…

 

Like a lot of things designed to pack the pounds onto Jensen's frame, The Stash started with one of Jared's random-as-fuck ideas, probably one of the ones that only Jared actually understood, at first. Jensen still doesn't know where Jay got the original impulse or how he developed it into the actual thing, but about eighteen months ago, Jared set up The Stash's first incarnation.

It was less than half the current Stash's size, just a little bigger than a shoebox (small enough to fit on the bedside table with Jensen's lamp and the alarm clock). Much as Jensen could get behind the concept, as Jared explained it — _I mean… you're trying to gain weight, right, Jenny? So any unnecessary expenditure of calories is bad news bears, yeah? So, like… why wouldn't you want to have a bunch of snacks and shit on-hand without having to get up and go to the kitchen, or yell at Misha to go get them when you know he'll probably just be a smart-ass, or get all, 'Jensen, I'm your roommate, not your maid' … Not to toot my own horn, but I'd say it's a pretty genius idea…_ — and much as he's gotten used to having his box of treats right by his bed, Jensen's unspeakably glad that The Stash's contents have evolved.

Bless his heart, Jared's idea of keeping the thing stocked meant packing it full of chocolate bars but little else — not the potato chips, not the bags of Chex Mix, _definitely_ not the granola bars… Even after Jensen convinced his boy of their deliciousness and value as a kind of snack food, Jared's content to tease Jensen mercilessly about how fiercely he argued for their inclusion, and how it's _totally hot_ when Jensen eats (relatively) healthy things, just lots of them.

Aside from deciding, for the most part, what went into the thing, Jared spent a lot of time (at least, the time that wasn't already devoted to school, date nights, fucking, making out, and calling for carry-out or a pizza delivery) coming up with Devious PlansTM and Totally Awesome Fun ThingsTM to do with the Stash.

Most of these plans came down to a slightly more relaxed version of their date nights: they'd get together at some point when they could reasonably guarantee not to get on Misha's nerves if they got noisy. They'd lean back on Jensen's headboard, in some position designed for optimum cuddling (which mostly meant that Jensen got to nuzzle at Jared's perfect neck and Jared had constant, easy access to Jensen's tummy). They'd put on a movie, usually something stupid and silly and cute, and in between lazy kisses, and belly-rubs, and maybe something more, if things went that way, they'd try to see how much of The Stash Jensen could get through by the time the credits rolled.

Devious little shit that he is, Jared naturally cheated the first time they did this.

And the second.

And the third… and, if Jensen's being honest, Jared's just… never really _stopped_ cheating. He cheats so often that they should really just rewrite the rules to make everything he does fair game.

And, knowing Jared, he'd probably just find some new way to cheat.

Not that Jensen blames him, considering how _skinny_ he was when they got started indulging in their mutual kink, or that he's complaining about his boyfriend's dedication to helping him get fat. By now, Jensen makes a game out of trying to guess how Jared's going to cheat. But the first time they played The Stash Game, Jared's cheating bore a special mention, if only for how everything went down — how it looked like it might be the worst night of Jensen's life, but, being the giant, amazing sweetheart that he is, Jared saved it.

As he drops his hand and starts kneading at his own stomach, Jensen idly thinks that Jared should still accept his offer of being drawn into a comic as a superhero whose power is being the most awesome boyfriend ever — and in the back of his mind, he can hear Jared laughing his boisterous laugh and insisting that _Boyfriend Man_ was the stupidest name for a superhero ever.

Jensen might just have to draw some of _Boyfriend Man's_ adventures and send them to Jared for Christmas. Just to prove that he's crazy for doubting Boyfriend Man's potential awesomeness. And because, fuck, if they can't spend their second Christmas as boyfriends together, then Jensen's going to do something awesome for it.

But for now, he's content to rub at his stomach and hope sleeping in means he'll manage to guilt-trip a huge breakfast out of Misha… Though it might well be brunch by the time they get around to it… _Eh, whatever_ , Jensen figures, allowing himself a long, deep yawn and working over his flab. Even though he wants to be bigger, even though he still sometimes manages to feel rather… _small_ , Jensen can appreciate his growing belly and how much of an improvement it is than when he and Jay started trying to get him gaining weight on purpose… how much softer, how much softer it feels under his hands…

With a sigh, Jensen caresses one of his rolls of fat and tries to drift off back to sleep. It doesn't quite work, but… dreaming, reminiscing, might as well be all the same to him.


	3. Chubby Hubby.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the plot gets momentarily derailed into an extended PWP wanking scene.

Back in February, Jared decided to inaugurate The Stash, and subsequently The Stash Game, by sticking on _Charlie And The Chocolate Factory_ — for some unfathomable reason, he thought that it complimented the twenty-something bars of varying chocolates that he had with him, even though Jensen tried to argue that, no, something _sweet_ would've complemented the chocolate better.

And, seriously, he wasn't that picky about other options, either. He would've even watched _The Phantom Menace_ or _Santa Claus Conquers The Martians_ instead of Tim Burton's take on the Willy Wonka story… But if Jared wanted his opinion, then Jensen thought there were tons of better choices for chocolate-complementing films. And if he didn't have them, they could've stolen them from Misha, who probably owned more DVDs than any human being could ever need.

All Jensen wanted to watch while they got to work was something that really, honestly counted as _sweet_. Something with a heart, something with a soul (and enough laughs to keep him from feeling totally pathetic for enjoying it). Something like _Pretty In Pink_ , or _Ten Things I Hate About You_ , or _Harold and Maude_ , or generally anything that didn't involve Johnny Depp making himself into Lord God King Creeptastic Pedophile Candy-Selling Man — which, as he attempted to point out, was a mood-kill, a buzz-kill, a boner-kill, and a complete, total appetite suppressant.

"Which I really don't need any _more_ of, Jay — just in case you've forgotten… Not that you _could_ , I mean…"

If he'd had anything noteworthy around his midsection, Jensen would've grabbed onto it — but his hands came up with nothing, practically empty, save for a little bit of extra skin where he hadn't wanted to work at recovering the rock-hard abs Danneel had deluded herself into deciding he'd had in high school. A seriously off-the-deep-end kind of delusion, if you asked Jensen, which she hadn't…

But for all Danneel had backed off of her ridiculous insistence that he go on a diet, abandoned all hope of dragging him along on her masochistic fucking five AM jogs, and stopped telling him how getting thinner made him look so _healthy_ and _glowing_ or whatever when it just made him feel half-fucking-dead… For all Jensen had resumed eating like he had before, he hadn't managed to gain back any of the weight he'd lost. He wasn't even _close_ to having his weight where he liked it.

He'd held steady at one-sixty-three for nigh on eight months now, spent seven of them dating Jared and just under three aware of the kink that they shared, trying to get him bigger so they could indulge in it… Jensen's waist was _stuck_ at the thirty inches Danneel had whittled him down to… Sure, it didn't say a lot that Jared still weighed more than he did — the fucking Yeti stood six-five and had two hundred and seven pounds of solid muscle on him… but they'd been trying _everything_.

Jensen had given up the gym. He'd given up his bike, only taking it out when he couldn't avoid it. Jared brought him lunches, he didn't go through any study sessions without accumulating a small mountain of snack food wrappers, and once Danneel had come around, she'd baked Jensen cookies pretty much whenever he asked her for some. He and Jared even had twice-and-sometimes-thrice-weekly date nights down at Friendly's, where the waitstaff knew them on a first-name basis and had their usual order memorized…

But regardless of what they did, Jensen's middle stayed mostly flat, his ass practically deflated… The cute Friendly's waitresses never tried to rub Jensen's tummy for good luck, the way Jensen had watched them do with Jeff, and Mark, and Matt, and Richard once Misha had fattened them up — Shit, sometimes Jensen actively fished for comments, but they never mentioned his weight at all, except to wonder where he put all the pizza when he was done bingeing on it… _Nothing was fucking working_.

Rolling his eyes, Jared _sighed_ and tried to interject that hey, just because Jensen was still on the thin side didn't make him any less attractive, as far as Jared was concerned — "Because I'm not just here for your body, moron," he pointed out, swooping back down to the mattress, straddling Jensen's hips and stealing a kiss. Ducking a finger under Jensen's chin, Jared kept him from looking away, even if there weren't any more kisses right off the bat.

"Not that I'm saying that you're not gorgeous, because… Jesus. Anyone who'd argue that is fucking blind, but… Hell, I thought we'd been over this enough, babe. If I just wanted to fuck a fat guy, I'd go and bet Seth that he can't keep dodging the, 'queer in a year or your money back' bullet."

"You know, Jay?" Jensen chuckled, smirking and knocking his nose against his Sasquatch boyfriend's. "I mean… I know it's hard to believe, but _some people really are heterosexual_ , and I'm pretty sure Seth's one of them."

"Don't remind me, jerk." Jared chased the play-insult with another quick kiss, probably just to remind Jensen that he was kidding. "Seriously… it's not fucking fair for a guy with an ass like that to be unattainable, you know? Just like… _God damn_ — why can't he at least be a three-beer bisexual or something—"

" _Focus_ , Jared — how about let's you get back to telling my ass how sexy _I_ am."

"Right! …Right," Jared said, flushing pink — snickering at his antics, Jensen stole a kiss of his own, for the same purpose of reminding Jared that he was loved, and appreciated, and even his atrocious attention span had a place here. In Jensen's lap. Within kissing distance. "Look, Jenny, like I was saying? I'm not just here to get you all fat and stuff, and fuck you, and dump you, I mean… how much did you weigh when we started dating? About the same as you do now? 'About the same' meaning, 'about as fat as Kate Moss'—"

"Hey!" Jensen play-swatted at Jared's cheek, then at one of his wrists. "Fucking _rude_ much, man? I totally have more fat on me than that stick-insect…" He wrinkled his nose at Jared's Arched Eyebrow Of Suspicion TM — and that just got him pinched on the side. For some value of 'pinched.' "…Dude, seriously, I'm like at _least_ a Tyra Banks or something. Not fucking Kate Moss."

"Yeah, sure thing, Mary-Kate Olsen." Vaguely, Jensen wanted to smack Jared upside the head right now, but… the good/bad thing about Jared's kisses was that they were totally distracting, and after a thorough mouth-assault, Jensen couldn't remember what he'd wanted to tell Jared off with.

Jared smirked, and declared that he won, and went on: "Anyway… yes. It's true. I like big butts and I cannot lie. I also like beer bellies, and love-handles, and fat guys who wear tight clothes so I can ogle them, and biting on double-chins — and I can't _wait_ to grope on you when you've got more to love… Fuck, I can barely keep my hands off you now, y'know?"

Pausing for a moment, Jared leaned down and stole another kiss, a longer one — he started this one off slow, just cupped Jensen's jaw and sucked on Jensen's lower lip… Playfully, Jensen knocked his tongue into Jared's, just intending to do a little more than sit there at the headboard and look cute; and for his efforts, he got Jared to cough like he was choking. And giggle. And whisper that he hadn't expected that — but he recovered quickly enough, kissing Jensen deeper than he had tonight, grating his teeth over Jensen's lower lip, then sucking on it, sucking on Jensen's tongue — Had his mouth been in the right place, he'd have been giving Jensen the perfect blow-job…

And then he stopped, as abruptly as he'd started.

He kept his hand on Jensen's face, and he didn't even pull back too far — as Jensen proved by nabbing himself another quick kiss, Jared was well within smooch range… but judging from how he started talking, Jared had decided to create a momentary kissing hiatus: "Look, though, Jenny… I swear to God, I don't care if you're big and beautiful, or if your body doesn't let us get your weight past one-ninety, or if you stay all model-skinny like this forever, or anything like that. As long as you don't lose any more weight or anything, 'cuz you haven't got a lot to lose, sexy."

Slipping his hand under Jensen's t-shirt, palming at Jensen's still unimpressive stomach, Jared said, "I just want to be with you, Jensen Ackles, because you're smart, and you're creative, and you're sweet on the streets but you fuck like a beast, and I can take you home to meet my parents, and in case you missed the memo, you're like, _so_ totally dreamy. I mean… those green eyes, and those freckles, and that perfect smile? I think I must've won the karma lottery to get you for a boyfriend."

By way of wrapping up and, Jensen presumed, making his point, Jared wolf-whistled with the ferocity of the old pervy Loony Toons — and because this apparently didn't go far enough, he play-howled — _ow, ow, AWOOOOOO_ — the way the animated Big Bad Wolves would do, thumping his knee against Jensen's thigh and grinding his taut, perfect ass against Jensen's hips. This set Jensen laughing, flapping his hands at Jared's shoulders and squealing about _oh, Jesus Christ, you fucking spaz — what the Hell is wrong with you, dork-face — stop fucking humping me, you're not a dog and I'm not a fucking couch — stop it, stop it, stop it, staaaaaaaahp!_ — and the only thing that made him listen was hearing the, "someone's downstairs and wants to get in your apartment" buzzer go off.

"I'll get it!" Jared announced, and dashed off to do just that, leaving Jensen alone with the irritating music of the DVD's menu screen, pondering what the Hell could've been at the door…

Vaguely, he supposed that Misha had probably forgotten his keys and gotten locked out again.

So when Jared returned with a two boxes of delivery from Friendly's, it was all Jensen could do to ask what was in them, and when Jared had found time to order whatever it was, and just… try to keep his eyes from falling out of his skull in shock. Absolutely beaming, Jared flopped down next to him and opened the boxes one after another, revealing a large order of cheesy breadsticks and Jensen's favorite kind of pizza: extra-large, square-shaped deep-dish; pepperoni, mushrooms, pineapple, ham, extra cheese, and onions… Just looking at it made Jensen's mouth water — and before he knew it, Jared jammed a piece of cheese-bread between his lips.

Jensen wrinkled his nose and took a large bite off it. Chewed. Swallowed — and then demanded to know what Jared was playing at, what with the pizza and crap.

Jared mock-gasped, trying his best to look offended and really only looking ridiculous. "It's for you, skinny… Yeah, in addition to the chocolate… Yeah, I'm totally serious. I'm serious like a textbook… Come _oooooon_ , Jenny — you want this stuffing-you-to-make-you-bigger thing to _work_ , don't you?"

Even if Jensen hadn't wanted that, the wibbling, pouty sad puppy face that Jared gave him would've convinced him to go along with the wacko freaking scheme he'd concocted — and even when agreeing got another breadstick shoved into his mouth, Jensen couldn't bring himself to say, 'no.' They only paused to get Jensen's shirt off — not that he was worried about filling it out, but he was already in a baggy pair of boxers and, as Jared pointed out, this would all be easier if Jensen was comfortable.

Once he was, and once the movie went on, the two of them worked quickly, quicker than they'd ever gone in their date-night bingeing sessions: Jared fed him and, eagerly obliging, Jensen ate… And ate. And ate. And every once in a while, pouted and sniffled at Jared for a drink from one of their cans of Coke — and then he ate some more. Jensen chewed, and swallowed, and barely moved because Jared refused to let him even risk wasting calories… After twenty-five minutes, Jensen had polished off four slices of pizza, half the order of breadsticks, a can of soda, and a three bars of the 48% cocoa smooth milk chocolate with almonds whose proceeds went to help endangered otter populations or something like that…

Jensen could feel it, his stomach getting crammed and tight and starting up the protest of _too much goddamn food, Ackles_ — but, much to his more pleasant surprise, his dedication was finally starting to show. He paused for a moment — with Pizza Slice Number Five hovering in front of his face and begging him to eat it, even without Jared giving it a silly, high-pitched voice and cooing, _Jeeensen… Jeeeeeenseeeeen… put me in your mouth, skinny boy… eaaaaaat meeeeeee…_ Not that he wanted to make Jay get impatient, but Jensen needed to catch his breath and, as he glanced down at his lap, he made out the hints of a bulge starting around his middle.

Sure, he knew it was just a food-baby — and that, as far as food-babies went, it wasn't that impressive… But none of his and Jared's date-night binges had given Jensen any kind of outward sign that he'd started making progress.

At the next huge bite of pizza he swallowed, Jensen felt his stomach groan — and he guessed that he shouldn't have been surprised, not really… Sure, he and Jared had spent the past ten-and-a-half weeks regularly stuffing Jensen's face, but before that, Danneel had had him on a rabbit food diet. She'd actually seemed to think he was a fucking bunny some days… like the ones when she got on his ass about snacking during the day, never mind that breakfast had been two egg whites and lunch had been splitting a salad with her, one that she wouldn't even let him put dressing on… It wasn't as though he could spend months upon months eating like that without his stomach shrinking down some. That was kind of the point, he'd gathered.

Funny enough, Danny really stepped up her attempts at getting Jensen's weight down when she noticed that Jared had a monster crush on him… And now that his and Jay's secret about body-type preferences was out in the open, they just wanted to work on undoing all the effort she'd expended on getting Jensen slender enough to be conventionally fuckable… And the work to get thin again had been for a chubby-chasing Sasquatch, to make him happy without knowing anything about what he liked on a guy… And now, that attempt to snag a date with Jared was standing in the way of Jensen being happy with his boy…

But he sighed. And he went right back to eating — he even started eating faster, trying to make his gut shut up about how full it was. Ten minutes later, he'd had three more breadsticks and two more slices of pizza. Another twenty, and Jensen had almost polished off the delivery order: one lone breadstick sat next to the last two corner slices from the pizza, as Jensen downed piece number ten. He whined to Jared for some soda, and Jay obliged — This full feeling had stopped being slightly naggy, was getting into just uncomfortable… Jensen's guts churned as he crammed in another bar of chocolate, the last breadstick, one of the corner slices…

More than just the baby-bulge he'd gotten at first, Jensen's stomach now looked like he'd swallowed a basketball. His belly stuck out into his lap, taut and firm and bigger than it had been in ages — a reassuring thought, even if he knew that it was just stuffed full of food. God, he was going to explode… He couldn't keep going, this was way, way, _way_ too much, but… Still, Jensen took another bite. And another. And a third — he'd start shoving his fingers down his throat, if he had to, just to make the food stay put…

But something hit him on bite number four.

Jensen didn't even know what it was, couldn't think for long enough to find the right words — He saw how far he was in the slice. Halfway, just a little bit over… maybe sixty-five percent or so… But his stomach lurched, and Jared pulled the slice back, stroked his fingers over Jensen's hair and whispered that he looked kinda pale, was he feeling okay… Jensen felt Jared's hand splaying over his stomach and he whimpered, "Jay… 'm gonna puke…"

Everything happened so fast after that — Jared forced down a gulp or two of soda and, before Jensen could realize what was happening, Jared had him lying down on his back… From this angle, his stomach finally looked impressive, but when Jared whispered for him to close his eyes, Jensen nodded and played along. Jared worked his strong hands all over Jensen's belly, massaging every spot where he was too full, rubbing him down… And Jensen had to admit: it made him feel better. The nausea took a while to fully subside, but slowly, surely, he felt less uncomfortably stuffed… and less suffocated by his own middle.

"You're an idiot sometimes, Jenny," Jared huffed, and sure, he was trying to sound aggrieved, but Jensen could hear the affection in his voice. "No, but seriously: you're a champ, you are… but you can't do this again, okay? Promise? No more stuffing until you want to puke…" Jensen moaned as Jared found a spot that needed special attention, and Jared chuckled. "Don't give me that cute face, dork. I'm not gonna go easier on you just because you're totally adorable. No stuffing until you wanna puke. Because someday you _will_ puke, and fuck that, babe…"

Blowing a raspberry, Jared paused his attentive ministrations to poke Jensen in the food-baby. "Nooooo puuuuuking," he drawled. "Jeeeeeennyyyyyy… no puking for yooooooou. Promise me no puuuuuuuking…"

And for all Jensen couldn't laugh as much as he wanted to for fear of upsetting his stomach, he chuckled, and nodded, and lifted one hand up to intertwine his fingers with Jared's.

 

Half-asleep and still hungry, Jensen misses that feeling… the fullness (at least once it stopped hurting him), and knowing that Jared was there at his bedside, looking after him… Good thing Jensen's kept The Stash fully stocked while Jared's been gone; it's the closest thing he's gotten to one of his and Jay's stuffing sessions.

For three weeks straight now, he's been waking up hungry because, sure, fine, he'll admit it. On his own, left to his own devices and without any help from Jared, Jensen can still pack away whole pizzas, and cheesecakes, and pint after pint of Ben and Jerry's, plates full of Dani's homemade double-chocolate cookies and Misha's peanut butter chocolate brownies, entire family size boxes of mac and cheese (the good kind, the kind with the Velveeta sauce and not the bullshit dehydrated powder), and still tell himself that he's got room for pie…

But it's just not the same as being well and _properly_ stuffed. As falling back on his bed's headboard, or the couch, or some poor unsuspecting chair, letting the weight of his taut, jam-packed belly pin him there and not even putting up a fuss when Jared swoops in to spoon more food down his gullet — not even whispering a stray, _God, no, Jay… too full… I can't_ , though Jensen's gotten better at asking for time to breathe, or a mid-session belly rub, just to help him feel more open, ready to take on whatever Jared has to offer next.

And bingeing on his own's definitely not the same — not even in the same ballpark — as eating, eating, _eating_ until he looks half-pregnant, despite his stomach's whines of protest and groans for him to _stop_ …

Especially not doing so while knowing that, if he gets through the entire spread within the session's time limit, there's a guarantee of a digestive nap, and Jared's "patented" Super Duper Fucking Belly RubsTM, and, once Jensen's stomach's had a chance to settle, perhaps some thorough, lazy fucking — _and if you're really good… maybe I'll go to the fridge and steal that chocolate sauce that Misha thinks he's hiding… and some of that whipped cream you love so much, maybe those chocolate strawberries, and then…?_

_…Maybe then I'll get myself all painted up and you can lick me clean before we do it, how's that sound, piggy?_ , Jensen imagines his boy whispering to him in the deep, throaty way that, in any other context, sounds more ridiculous than Christian Bale's Bat-douche voice and usually gets used just before Jensen shoves Jared off of something and refuses to talk to him until he's back to being himself — but that drives Jensen _wild_ in the bedroom, can sometimes get him hard with a couple well-placed words and a strategic grope of his belly's lower curve.

That's the most sensitive part of his expanding middle — it's ticklish, and more than anywhere else, it's where Jensen can feel the rough texture of Jared's palms, how warm they are, how much force Jared puts into pinching him… And Jared's well aware of this fact. He's more aware of it than things like where he leaves his keys, and what he wanted to look up in his textbook's index before he got distracted by doodling a cartoon caffeine molecule, and why you don't ask Chad From Campus Tech Support what kind of animal died on his head to make that mullett.

And Jensen drops his hand down there now — abandons petting his upper belly in favor of stroking the part that hangs over the waistband of his boxers, brushing his fingers up and down the contour of it, stifling his desire to laugh… It's easier to quash the ticklishness, he finds, when he just palms at the thing: lets both of his hands sneak underneath it, grabs onto the roll and jostles it—

His mind wanders briefly, wondering if Genevieve still weighs more than Jared does — Misha said she got up to two-twelve while they were together, and she's not really Jensen's type (not least for the fact that she's his boyfriend's cousin), but… he can't deny: from the belly, to the hips, to the couple cup-sizes she visibly wend up, the side-effects of dating Misha looked good on her. And Jensen hasn't seen her since graduation week, when she and Jared slept over (Jared in bed with Jensen, Gen in Misha's room, and Misha on the couch), since underclassmen had to leave campus housing, they wanted to go to the ceremony, and hey: the Ackles-Collins pad was close enough to be convenient, but _technically_ it wasn't campus housing. She might've gotten bigger over summer break…

Like a traitor, Jensen's cock twitches at that thought — but on the positive side of things, that brings his mind back to where it belongs: Jared, Jared's smile, Jared's abs and Jared's smile, combing his fingers through Jared's hair… Jared's huge, rough hands and their tender caresses, the way he sees nothing wrong with fondling Jensen everywhere, as often as possible, regardless of where they are… Jared's voice and everything he has to say about the changes to Jensen's physique.

_God, Jenny, you're getting so goddamn big… Probably won't be able to fit all of you in my lap pretty soon_ , or so Jensen's head-Jared hisses at him next, and Jensen shivers from just the way his mind creates those words, the accuracy with which he remembers Jared's voice, the way it feels like Jared's actually whispering on the back of his neck. _You have any idea how proud I am of you? How fucking sexy you looked, the first day you weighed more than me? I never want to have my hands off of you, you know that?_

He's half-asleep, lolling in and out of fully retreating to his dreamland, but everything his mind cooks up, Jensen hears in Jared's voice.

Well… maybe he doesn't _really_ hear it in Jared's voice. This, he supposes, would be impossible, since Jared's real voice is across the fucking ocean, at the moment. But, as he yawns and nuzzles against his pillow, Jensen's pretty good with his imagination's version of how Jay talks. The pillow's dissatisfying, just because it's not Jared's lap, or his _oh dear god so fucking perfect_ hands (he misses those hands — even groping himself can't compare to that — the callouses his drawing supplies put on his fingers aren't the same as Jared's huge, rough palms)…

Jensen misses Jared's Julienne salad-shredded stomach, and how his thighs are so taut and muscled, but his lap's so comfortable… He misses every other part of his boyfriend where Jensen could put his head and feel Jared's fingers stroking through his hair… Slowly but surely, head-Jared's chatter get dirtier, and though he vaguely thinks that he should go get Misha up, and do the weigh-in so they can have breakfast, Jensen doesn't want to put a stop to anything: _Jesus fucking Christ, Jen, get that chocolate off your lips, don't make me lick it off you…_

Jensen's stomach churns and he moans — it sounds more like a whimper, and he hates that, but he tongues at his lips anyway, lapping them up as though there's really chocolate on them… Never mind that they just taste like they need some chap-stick; he can pretend it's different… he can pretend he got his hands on something chocolate, and that Jared's grinding his stomach against Jensen's chunky back, whispering at him: _Go on… faster! Cram it in your mouth already — what're you offering them to me for, Jen? They're not my calories, boyfriend; they're yours — God, you're really eating like a piggy tonight—_

He's never thought about it before, but… Jensen wants to make this sort of thing a reality. Wants to hear Jared actually throwing every kind of insult under the sun at him. Just as Jensen scoops his gut up in both hands, head-Jared hisses at him, again, _Look at this mess you're making out of dinner, Jensen… No, I'm serious; look at how sloppy you're being… The food's supposed to go in you, piggy, not get all over your fucking face… I hope you're not planning on getting a pity-fuck when we're done here, piggy. You know there's no sex unless your plate's all clean, and you're all clean, and remember, no washing up… It's all got to be inside of you, if you have to lick it all off… I don't bend messy Jensens over the desk, piggy…_

_Piggy_ — that word sticks out at Jensen, among all the other ones that head-Jared throws at him, not least because it's real-Jared's favorite nickname for him (at least, favorite that isn't somehow based on Jensen's name). And as he massages the paunch around his bulging waistline, Jensen just imagines Jared stuffing him full and whispering it over, and over, and over again: _piggy… piggy… piggy…_ This… groaning at the thought of _this_ , Jensen closes his eyes, pictures Jared swooping down on him… In his imagination, Jensen has his hands cuffed behind a chair and Jared straddling him, squishing his thighs because there's not enough room otherwise…

And his fantasy Jared keeps leaning in, then pulling back… teasing at kisses, then jerking away — and every time he gets close enough, he crams more food into Jensen's mouth… Chocolate, and brownies, and cake… Spoonfuls of ice cream or forkfuls of pasta, or the chocolate-covered strawberries he knows that Jensen likes so much — and sometimes, Jared pauses, stroking Jensen's hair or his belly, guiding him through chewing everything slowly, and thoroughly, so he's less likely to make himself feel sick…

And through all of it, Jared whispers to him, _God, you're filling out so nicely, piggy… but don't you think you could get bigger? I want to see you bigger, fatter… I can still straddle you lap, Jenny Bear. I shouldn't be able to straddle your lap, I don't care how fucking long my legs are… I want to have to sit on your big ol' flabby thighs, I wanna get you so goddamn big, I could get lost in your stomach rolls… I want you to get ass-dimples the size of my fucking head — oh, don't sad puppy face at me, Ackles. When you pout, it only makes me want more of you to love — open your fucking mouth and eat already, pig._

This is Jensen's proverbial straw — his one last shove until he plummets off the cliff… And his brain tries to milk it for all it's worth, dragging the image out, putting more words into head-Jared's mouth while Jensen pretends that it's for real: _Look at your fucking belly, Jensen — how come you're not up to two-twenty yet, babe? I thought we promised you'd get there before I left, maybe even two-twenty-five, but look at this… you want to keep doing this, don't you? What happened to the Jensen who told me he wanted to get really fat — enormously, hugely, massively fucking fat? …Oh, God, I bet you fucking ate him, didn't you, piggy…_

Of all the goddamn kinks out there, Jensen's never even considered the possibility of having _this_ one… Never thought for a minute that he could get turned on by having Jared hurl insults at him. …But he still wants this to be real. He wants to go out of the apartment shirtless, the full expanse of his gut on display for everyone, and he wants Jared to be there with him, leading him around, showing him off, and wherever they go, whatever he says, somehow mocking Jensen's weight… Throwing around nicknames like _piggy_ , and _whale_ , _blubber-butt_ , _tubby_ , _porky_ , _man-tits_ , and _lard-ball_ , and _fat-ass_ …

Until this very moment, he's been pretty sure that only freaks and weirdos were into having their boyfriends humiliate them.

But even just the thought of Jared saying those kinds of things fills Jensen's stomach with a hot, sick need — not the churning, painful hunger from before, but a sensation of total emptiness, total yearning, desire that threatens to burn him up from inside out… He moans, bucks his hips into his bedsheets and a pillow, wishes he had Jared's perfect ass to grind against instead… Finally, Jensen feels his dick rise to full attention, curling up against his belly's hypersensitive lower curve…

Jensen can't even think clearly enough to reach for the lotion on his bedside table, sitting right between his alarm clock and the lamp. His head-Jared whispers more insults at him — _Jesus Christ, are you getting off on this, piggy? What kind of fat-ass do you think you are, you haven't put on nearly enough weight to be getting off on this yet… You're still practically skinny… You're not even wearing those 40-waist jeans we bought you last month… If you're so eager, why don't you fucking eat more, tubby…_ And Jensen might as well be gone. He barely manages to spit in his palm, which is good enough for him.

And as he wraps his hand around his dick, as these ideas play through his mind, Jensen briefly thinks that actualizing this shouldn't be too much of a problem… After all, they both have Skype accounts… Once Jared's figured out how to use it without going over his monthly university-given Internet access limit, Jensen wants the scene playing out inside his head to be real. He wants to feel Jared's hands straining over his girth, squishing the fat, and jostling it around, and unable to completely cover Jensen's middle… He wants to feel Jared's fingers deftly gliding along the grooves, the deep and angry red indentations that Jensen's too-tight shorts left in his flesh…

He wants to feel Jared grope at his love-handles, dig his nails in the flesh as he shoves Jensen up onto a scale, knead Jensen's fat until he gets hard just from that feeling, and Jared's breath on his neck, and the sound of Jared whispering, _Fucking hell, you're not sneaking out to the gym behind my back, babe, are you? …You've only put on two pounds, Jen — I know you've been eating more than that… You eat like such a fucking pig, you've got to weigh more than that…_

He wants to feel Jared's lips on his belly, then his teeth, his tongue, and the wispy little breaths as he caresses Jensen's gut, leans into every spot he's kissed and whispers, _Piggy, piggy, piggy… who's my piggy… Bet you're still hungry for more, piggy, aren't you… You're so fucking fat by now, and you were so skinny just a couple months ago, I should get a goddamn award for getting you so fucking big, just look at this thing… But there's room for more in there, isn't there, piggy? Come on… come on!_

Jensen gasps at this thought, at the words coming out of head-Jared's mouth… He tightens his hand around his dick, strokes himself up and down in slow, lazy motions, grinds his thumb into the base of his shaft, just to make himself gasp again… With his free hand, Jensen grabs onto one of the rolls on his stomach, scrapes his thumb along the under-side and jiggles everything… He shakes it so hard that his love-handles quiver and his softened chest — his almost-but-not-quite-tits — smacks against the sloping, upper curve of his stomach… This all reminds him of where reality is. What's real, what isn't, where he's just imagining things… but he's so caught up in this half-dream, half-spank-bank-fantasy that he doesn't fucking care…

He wants Jared to give him orders… shove all kinds of food at him and get snippy if Jensen takes too long… He wants to lick thick, sugary frosting off of Jared's fingers, and pizza out of Jared's perfect hands, and he wants Jared to really be there, telling him: _Come the fuck on, Jen. You're so good about being neat with my cum, baby, so what's with this fucking Porky Pig act you're putting on tonight… Seriously, Jensen, just look at you. You've got your chocolate all over your mouth, and your fingers — Eat it faster, piggy. It wouldn't melt on you if you'd eat it faster._

And here, it seems like head-Jared takes over — Jensen clenches his eyes shut, tries to call back the images from before, the feeling of Jared pinning him to the chair, cramming his mouth all full of food… But it doesn't work.

He just keeps pumping his dick as head-Jared's words rush at him: _So fleshy, so hot, and you're still like a twig compared to where you're supposed to be… If you keep listening to your douchebag boss, I'm gonna handcuff you to the bed and stuff you 'til you burst… I'm gonna get your belly so big, Jenny, so swollen… Gonna make this ass so fat, they won't have any kind of jeans that'll let you hide it… not like you're gonna be able to get any jeans up your porky thighs, piggy. You think they jiggle now? When I'm done with them, they'll be thick like fucking tree trunks… I wanna get them so big, you can cause fucking earthquakes when you move._

_Love you so much, Jensen — I love you. I do. I love you so much, you chubby, sexy little pig… Mmm, you know why they call these love-handles, Jenny? …'cuz I love to handle them when they're all chunky and plump like this, heh… Love to handle them, love to handle you… You're fucking perfect and I'm gonna do every-fucking-thing to you… I'm gonna fuck you stupid, until you love you as much as I do…_

—Jensen gasps. And bucks his hips. He shivers, feels another chill as his stomach tries to drop out of him… And everything goes white. Groaning, panting, Jensen cums, feels his fingers growing sticky and heavy with the mess of his excretion.

Just like waking up hungry reminds him that bingeing's not the same as getting stuffed, the relief of getting himself off reminds Jensen of what he's missing: sex — real sex — real sex with his inhuman fucking boyfriend, who's all the way in England and Jensen won't even get the chance to fuck him until Valentine's Day… Jensen's breath evens out too soon, once he's finished jerking off, and rather than feeling pleasantly exhausted, he just feels his stomach start acting up again. It churns and gurgles like it's trying to eat itself, screaming at him for real food, and with a sigh, Jensen sits up.

He mops his mess up with the tissues from his bedside table, and even though his brain makes vague efforts at reminding Jensen of Misha's point about early morning weigh-ins and getting accurate results, he is seriously too hungry to care. Jensen only pauses to question anything when he finds a piece of notebook paper hanging on the freezer door, with two of Misha's little Hebrew letter magnets keeping it there.

Scrawled on it in Misha's (barely) half-legible printing is a recipe (one Jensen immediately realizes is for the milkshakes that Misha made last night), and a note: _Jenny Thunder: if you're reading this, I know you're thinking about being a cheater-face. Consider this permission to make yourself a treat before your weigh-in. It's going to be like your medicine now and it won't fuck with the results too much. And I'm probably tired, so if you take the offer, don't wake me up until you drink the whole thing. Hugs and kisses and zombies, Misha._

Jensen snickers, and shakes his head. "God, you're such a dick sometimes," he mutters, even though Misha isn't here to hear him… But, hey: be that as it may, Jensen is _so_ not turning down the offer of another milkshake.


	4. Overweight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the plot comes back from its holiday in Narnia and Misha might just be a witch.

First thing's first: Jensen's pretty sure that there can only be two explanations for what happens in the kitchen. On the one hand, maybe Misha secretly hates him and wants him to drown in a tasty chocolate milkshake — which Misha would totally misconstrue as a punishment or something, the same way that he totally used to joke about getting Mark or Richard killed by leaving them in a mosh-pit full of Trekkies, dressed up like either Spock or Data, as though this was supposed to be some kind of serious threat or something.

Or maybe Misha wrote the instructions like he did because he _wanted_ Jensen to make an enormous batch of milkshake, and leave some behind so Misha could partake as well. And maybe he's going to get pissy when he finds out that Jensen doesn't plan on sharing… Except that this is a little bit too mind-game-playing to fit with Misha's _modus operandi_. Jensen may have learned all he knows about profiling from TV and comic books, but Misha prefers to just be upfront about his weirdness, instead of turning it into some battle of wits-cum-guessing game bullshit.

On the other hand, though, it's totally possible that Misha's planning stopped at, "what the Hell, I'll let my best friend have something nice this morning," and that Jensen just sucks at following directions.

Sure, this could also end up being Misha's fault — after all, if he was too lazy to type some shit up instead of writing it in his kindergarten scribble, then Jensen can't be blamed for not reading his instructions right — but even if Misha sucks at being legible… Jensen can't help thinking that his incompetence at sticking to a recipe is the only reason he ends up with so much milkshake in the blender. To say nothing of how it's way more than he remembers coming up when Misha made their drinks last night.

Either way, though, Jensen dumps the products of his misadventure into two of his and Misha's recycled Mega-Quench cups. He shrugs and settles into his favorite chair around the kitchen table. Without stopping to think about how maybe he put in too much ice cream, or how maybe Misha's recipe didn't need augmenting, even though four scoops of the high-calorie protein powder shit just seemed like… such a small amount, especially when Jensen wanted to be gaining weight, not just maintaining it.

Maybe there are more calories in the stuff than Jensen thinks, though once he's staring down about ninety-six ounces of milkshake, he can't be bothered to go and check. …Maybe his eyes have just gotten bigger than his stomach in the past three weeks. Like, maybe he misses Jared's attentive stuffing sessions, and the meals that his boy can make, and everything about Jared so much that his eyes are just getting increasingly worse at estimating how much food is in something and how much space it'll take up in his stomach… That sounds kind of pretty reasonable.

No, wait. More than that: it sounds, like, _completely_ reasonable as an explanation for things. At least, it sounds reasonable enough that Jensen would believe it, if someone with a medical degree or something came along and said it. Sure, he studied art. _Sure_ , all of his student internships were with artists, or gallery owners, or people tied to some of Jensen's favorite indie comics. And yeah, sure, fine, he stopped taking science classes once he scraped by in Gen Chem, and these days, he only pretends to give a crap about any of it for Jared's sake. _The explanation sounds kind of reasonable_ , and that's all that Jensen asks of it.

Plus, it'd jive with one of the other reasons that he thinks he overdid it on the treat-making.

This one, Jensen's certain, is absolutely not his fault. He totally can't be blamed for it… When the means of spooning powder from its container and into the blender is half buried under the stuff it's meant to scoop, anybody would start coming to conclusions. They might not have reached the same ones that Jensen did — namely, that Misha is fucking crazy and there was no way Jensen would make these milkshakes without at _least_ two more scoops than he'd prescribed — but… seriously.

So, maybe that's why Jensen's given himself such a Herculean task of drinking. The flimsy-looking scoopy-thing is secretly bigger than Jensen thought at first — he can admit that, though it's totally the scooper's fault and not his own.

…And sure, he didn't exactly pay attention while Misha was making these last night, but that's really not Jensen's fault either. He refuses to believe that he could've somehow changed his attention span. He was _distracted_ , for God's sake and for totally valid reasons. Anybody else in his position would've been just as hung up as he was on how Misha had finally come clean to him, because it might just be one of the greatest things to happen since Jared left.

Not to mention getting hung up on how it's kind of awesome that he and Misha can talk about the kink they have in common now. And how Jensen doesn't have to pretend he doesn't notice Misha's significant others getting chunky, or fake out like he never commented on Misha's fanfiction. To say nothing of how he totally snooped in Misha's browser history to get there, which Misha was _totally asking for_ , leaving it all open and shit when he'd begged Jensen to go in and fix his stuff — well.

Alright, on second thought, Jensen's probably not going to own up to that… Misha might've gotten outed, but he's still totally tricksy. If he starts holding out on the awesome porn now that his fetish is all out in the open, then Jensen might have to smack him, but he won't really be surprised. But that won't change the fact that, even once Misha started grilling him about his self-esteem last night, Jensen mostly just let himself get all hung up on how he could've thrown a fake, playful fit about how _he_ was Misha's best friend, not _Jared_ , so how come Jared got to find out about their shared breed of kinkiness…

So, yes. _Maybe_ , Jensen supposes as he stirs a spoon around in his fuller cup, he should've trusted Misha's instructions more than his own instincts… _**Maybe**_ , just maybe, Misha knows more about this procedure than he does, and Jensen's just setting himself up to get sick like this, and there's too much deliciousness for him to take even though he can't wake Misha up until he's done, and Jensen should at least reconsider drinking all of this himself, since Misha seemed to enjoy his serving of tasty milkshake last night and if it's small enough, he might not even subject Jensen to a round of whining about how tight he likes to wear his jeans and milkshakes aren't conducive to tight-jeans-wearing and dammit, Jensen, why couldn't you just follow my recipe…

But, whatever.

Jensen shrugs and glares down at his drinks, as though they're cognizant of how he's trying to will them to just get in his fucking stomach already. Silliness aside, though, he knows better than to fall victim to his own random hang-ups — he can spare the time for that later, when he doesn't have shit to do. The reasons why he wound up with so insane a task aren't as important as the outcome.

Especially not when the outcome's glaring back up at Jensen, mocking him for not drinking it yet, laughing some silent, evil little laugh about _you know you can't do it, Ackles… That's why you're not manning up and chugging: you're too scared of me, and Misha's right, you're too self-conscious… Why don't you just admit it and get back on Danneel's diet? It's not too late to get your abs back, pussy…_

Especially not when the outcome is that Jensen has an enormous helping of milkshake to get through before he can get what he really wants right now: a number to put on his current weight, so he and Misha can get _Project: Fat-Ass_ well and properly underway.

For all he's not sure that he can finish all of his milkshake, Jensen wouldn't go back in time and make himself pay closer attention to Misha's work. As if affirming this to himself, Jensen gets up and ferrets around the fridge for the spray-can of whipped cream, and he smirks as he dumps an enormous mountain of it onto his drinks. He might be crazy. He might be cruising for the worst stomachache of his life. Maybe all this worrying's for naught and the most that Jensen's going to get out of this is brain-freeze and a bunch of calories.

But whatever happens: he is sure as Hell not going to let some fucking milkshake beat him. Especially not one with the attitude that his imagination gave to these. Resolved to see this challenge through, Jensen sighs and throws back his first drink, letting the thick, delicious concoction slide down his throat, just trying to ignore the way his stomach protests that _dammit, Jensen, milkshakes are tasty but they are not food_.

 

More shocking than the sight of how much milkshake he whipped up: Jensen about keels over when it only takes him twenty-two minutes to down the fucking lot. Maybe a little over, maybe closer to twenty-five, but hey, no one's keeping score or anything.

With an obnoxious-sounding slurp, he drains the second cup dry of its contents… and it takes him a moment to really process this. He tilts it back further, hoping that he'll get another mouthful of his new favorite treat, and when that turns out (mostly) pointless, he scrapes the cup out with the miniature spatula that he used when the first cup ran out. The only reason he doesn't immediately lick off his chocolate milkshake mustache is that he forgets it's there until he starts idly tonguing at his lips.

He has to ask Misha what kind of witchcraft's going on with these things because… seriously. Jensen cannot believe that he just downed _a freaking inhuman_ amount of milkshake and he doesn't even feel _bloated_. At best, his stomach's just been sated until it can get some real food.

Mission accomplished, though, and without any encouragement — and that's a serious badge of honor for him. Jensen doesn't even wait for his stomach to settle. He just bounds over to Misha's bedroom door and starts to bang on it, shouting that okay, he's done with his present, and the milkshake was good — fuck, the milkshake was fucking awesome — but it's almost half-past-noon on their last free Saturday before Fucking Grad School eats their lives. "You can sleep when we're dead, Misha, but it's not like I can just… get fat while I'm taking a nap, okay? Seriously, Meesh, you fucking promised — come on and wake up already!"

Vaguely, Jensen reminds himself of the Obnoxious Child Attitude In Poignant Capital Letters that he, and Josh, and Mackenzie gave their parents every Christmas morning. And much like Jensen and his siblings spent all those instances completely convinced that screaming at their parents was the best way to get what they wanted, Jensen is _certain_ that the best way to get Misha out of bed and playing along is to assault his ears until he gives up and lets Jensen win.

…Also, Jensen's just really fond of making noise, as long as he doesn't piss off the neighbors (a fate he mostly wants to avoid because the little old lady on the other side of Misha's room is crabby old bitch and she's absolutely _not invited_ to Jensen's Saturday).

…Also, Misha's lucky enough that Jensen always pauses at his door and gets distracted trying to understand the logic behind the decorations on it. Like, the _Wrath of Khan_ poster makes sense enough, and it's not completely thrown out of joint by the selection of postcards — one of which is some promo art from _Edward Scissorhands_ , but most of which are pin-ups of Bettie Page and Dita Von Teese…

But then there are the rainbow-patterned unicorn stickers. …And some pictures of Misha making kissy faces at drag queens, hanging off of them like they're some fucking sequined jungle gyms, which Jensen just presumes were taken when Meesh and Jared ran away from him at Pride back in June. And a couple of old spring break snapshots that Misha's never bothered explaining…

The one of Richard sleeping with a swizzle straw hanging out of his mouth doesn't need that much backstory, but the one with Misha yelling at a bird? And the one where he's wearing some… ugly, gigantic wedding dress abomination in the middle of a grocery store? And the one where he's trying to dunk Richard's head into a pitcher of beer? …Yeah, Jensen's pretty sure that all of those only make any kind of sense because, in most of them, Misha looks about two shots away from puking and passing out.

Seriously, though… the fucking unicorn stickers. For one thing, he and Misha are almost twenty-three. For another, Misha's apparently such a genius that one of his professors threatened to set himself on fire in protest if Misha didn't go to grad school. _What is with the fucking unicorn stickers?_

With a sigh, and a pout, Jensen calls out, " _MISHA_! Get your lazy, scrawny ass out of that fucking bed or I'm gonna break in there and fucking sit on you!" He pauses, just because he finally hears some noise from behind the door… but he's pretty sure that the incomprehensible Misha-whine is trying to say something like, _fuck your face, dick-munch, the door's closed and I'm sleepy_ …

So Jensen huffs and slams his open palm down right next to Misha's favorite Bettie Page. "Come on, jackass—" Jensen bangs on the door again, and wonders if he's going to knock it off its hinges before he manages to make Misha _fucking cooperate_. "We've got work to do, Misha, remember that work thing?"

Finally, Jensen hears a noise behind the door: a _THUD_ , followed by a spirited round of cursing that just makes Jensen think Misha fell out of bed and maybe concussed himself or some shit like that. He wrinkles his nose at one of Misha's hanging-off-a-drag-queen photos, and… yeah, he's probably an asshole for how selfish his reasons are right now, but Jensen still _hopes_ Misha didn't go and break himself. ER visits aren't on the Ackles-Collins agenda for today, and fuck. that. goddamn. noise: he and Misha have a track record of visiting the ER for really stupid reasons. The last thing they need to add to that list is, _well, I fell out of bed and broke my face because Jensen was harassing me_.

Aside from the fact that neither of them are drunk enough to get away with that, it makes Jensen look like a douchebag, and it'd waste time they should be spending on more productive things. Preferably, things that involve Misha's cooking, Jensen eating it, and Jensen not having to feel like a douchebag — he reaches up to knock on the door again, but finds it gone. And before he can look down at him, Misha pokes him in the stomach — in one of the ticklish spots, too, because he just has to be a jerk like that.

And as Jensen's recovering from a fit of frantic laughter, Misha grabs him by the wrist, making for the bathroom, carrying a yellow tape measure in his free hand, and wearing the smirk that says he has some kind of devious plan in mind.

 

The devious plan might be… whatever the Hell Misha's gone and done to the bathroom scale. Once upon a time, it looked… pretty normal. Smooth, white plastic surface. Black screen that read out in red digital letters. A nubbin-button-wonky thing at the bottom where you could use your foot to turn it on. Jensen _remembers_ it looking pretty normal, because he remembers having to keep tabs on how his diet with Danneel was going…

And now… well. The smooth, white plastic surface and the black screen are pretty much the same. But the thing has clearly been pried open, and played with, and put back together, which goes without saying a thing about the tiny little speakers now resting on either side of the digital screen. Or the places on the sides where the light hits them just right and Jensen can tell something used to be hot-glued there. And he'll admit: he's kind of curious as to what the fuck Misha thought he needed to hot-glue to the side of the scale.

But, on the other hand, sometimes Misha can go a little bit crazy, and Jensen's not sure he wants to risk the possibility that his best friend's idea of decorating the thing involved something morbid. Or unsanitary. Or rainbow-patterned unicorn stickers.

The fact that Jensen hasn't seen the scale since… fuck, probably March or somewhere thereabouts makes all of these alterations seem that much bigger and more obvious. …And then there's the part where Misha, despite still looking half-asleep and like he's vaguely considering punching Jensen for dragging him out of bed, has a lopsided, face-straining grin that just screams evil genius… or at least, 'mad scientist.' Were it not for the fact that, right here, right now, it's more than a little bit creepy, Jensen would try to commit it to memory, just in case he ever ends up needing to make up a mad scientist character for something.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Misha says, simultaneously yawning and beaming with pride. Once Jensen supposes that… yeah, it's totally gorgeous, Misha continues, explaining that it took him ages, but does Jensen notice the extra buttons all up and down the thing? (Jensen does, though he doesn't see a reason why they all had to get painted in what is obviously glittery purple nail polish.) "The nail polish was just a special treat for me, nothing special about it, really…"

Aside from the fact that interrupting Misha will probably keep him explaining his Master Plans all fucking day, Jensen just doesn't have the heart to tell him that this explanation clears up exactly none of the questions that Jensen has kicking around about what the fuck Misha was thinking when he did this.

Whatever the Hell _this_ is supposed to be.

"Gen and Mark thought I was being ridiculous for this project, Jen, and I will admit: it took a while. I had to get all of the programming right — which meant I had to call Matt and Katherine, since… fuck if I know how to do all the super-technical shit on my own, I just know how to put things together like they're puzzles or something, and well… calling them went kind of wonky, since they still think I ruined their lives or something, which is stupid since, hey, I'm indirectly responsible for them hooking up—"

Jensen chuckles. Mostly because Misha's always had a badass way of turning a phrase, but… that has got to be the best way he's ever heard anyone make, _We dated, and fucked, and I fattened them up, and then they met and hit it off because Matt started following me to the gym_ sound… kind of vaguely positive. It's probably some kind of travesty that Misha majored in Gender And Sexuality Studies (with a minor in creative writing that he won't let anyone forget about), instead of like… Pre-Law, or PoliSci, or something that would end up with him going to law school.

But on the other hand, those choices mean that Jensen doesn't have to let his best friend run away to, like… Harvard or Stanford or some place that's a decent distance away from here. And… yep, he's still a selfish douchebag today, but hey. He's okay with not being forced to share Misha with some BAMF law school.

As he glances up from idly looking at his belly, wondering if this t-shirt's gotten any tighter or if he's just seeing things, Jensen realizes that… oh. Shit. Misha's still been talking: "…and alright, maybe Gen and Mark had a point that the electrical fire was a bad sign, but it wasn't a _huge_ electrical fire or anything, it didn't even set off the fire alarm, and it was worth it to modify this thing the way I did… I think my little personal touches really redefined it? …No, well. Not _redefined_ , that's not the word I want, but… they really allow the scale to achieve its full potential usefulness."

Jensen nods, and forces a smile, but still says, "…I'm sure it's awesome, Meesh, but I have no idea what you're talking about." Something involving Misha being distressingly nonchalant about electrical fires, he's gathered, which fills Jensen with the pressing, deeply conflicting desires to hug Misha until he _fucking promises_ to stop acting like he can come back, totally unharmed, from getting blown up… and to avoid getting near that possibly Satanic scale-thing at all costs.

Misha sighs. Rolls his eyes. Lets his lopsided mad scientist grin melt away into his lopsided, affectionate smile — and doesn't hesitate in saying, "Well, here. Let me demonstrate for you."

The sad thing is that, even if a fire starts, Jensen's still pretty sure it would impede his learning process less than trying to keep up with Misha's pre-coffee babbling.

At least, when Misha takes his big toe and prods the first of the little purple buttons, nothing spontaneously bursts into flame. …On the contrary, there's a little _ding!_ sound and, from the speakers on either side of the digital screen, a pleasant (if blatantly computerized) voice says, _Welcome back, **Misha**. Your last visit was on **May twenty-second**. Please step on the scale for your weigh-in._

…For all he knows that Matt and Katherine are super-geniuses at programming, or whatever, Jensen's pretty sure that this? This right here? Isn't just… being really smart and talented at something It's _sorcery_ — pure and fucking simple witchcraft. …It just happens to take the shape of a modified bathroom scale and manifest in ways that science can probably explain a little bit.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jensen thinks he sees Misha frown at… something… God only knows what, but… even if he does, this doesn't keep Misha from doing as he's told. The scale makes a whirring noise, like a computer booting up. A few clicking sounds follow it. And then another ding, and the computerized voice again: _**Misha** , today your weight is **one-hundred and sixty-five** pounds. You have **gained**. **thirteen**. pounds since your last weigh-in. For your height of **five** feet and **eleven** inches, your weight is **normal**. Thank you. Goodbye._

Jensen doesn't even need to pause and consider things: when Misha stumbles off the scale, he can _see_ that Misha's cheeks have gone bright red. Jensen frowns, going for sympathy even though he feels more confusion — and tries to reach out, but Misha flinches when Jensen's hand lands on his shoulder. …Misha's not even looking at him. Not even trying to pretend like he wants to… Instead, Misha's pouting in frustration. Wrinkling his nose like an irritated stick-insect. Making weird little whining sounds as he pokes himself in the stomach with his index and middle fingers.

Jensen groans, and rolls his eyes, and grabs Misha's wrist before he can keep poking at some nonexistent flab, or whatever he thinks he's doing. "Oh. my. _god_ ," Jensen sighs, "you… you ridiculous fucking stick-insect."

As he finally acknowledges the whole eye-contact business, Misha's blush flares up again, briefly turns a darker red, just before his complexion does a one-eighty and goes bone-white. " _Some_ of us are not _trying_ to gain weight, Jensen?" he points out, and even without that wobbling upward inflection, he sounds so… uncharacteristically insecure. Like he's trying to find some way to hide in their bathroom's ugly wallpaper.

Not that this keeps him from babbling on, trying to rationalize things and defend himself. Because, somewhere in Misha's wormy little brain, Jensen's certain that he lives with this unfathomable belief that he can talk himself out of everything, just by going on and on until he's totally lost the point: "I mean, I just… Fetish or not, or… random Internet kinky things aside, just… _some people_ — and maybe you've just… I don't know, forgotten about this, considering… well, everything? …But some people don't _like_ it when they all of a sudden put on fifteen damn pounds—"

" _Thirteen_ damn pounds, Misha," Jensen snaps. "Which, FYI, brings up a really good question, namely: what the fuck were you even doing down at one-fifty-two in the _first place_ , moron?"

Jensen hates the way his voice is getting right now, all… rage-quivering and , mostly because words are slightly more effective than smacking Misha upside the head — _seriously_. They've been _fucking over this_ before. …Jensen pauses, trying to recall back to May, back around the whole finals, and 'senior work is due early,' and graduation time… And all he can remember Misha looking like is pale, and skinny, and half-sick, and tired, and nauseated, and _fucking miserable_.

And Jensen gives himself a second for self-directed frustration — because, dammit, Misha would've noticed if something had been wrong with Jensen… Misha noticed how much Jensen hated Danneel's ridiculous diet and actively went being Jensen's back to ask her to stop… And what kind of best friend must Jensen be if he's only noticing that Misha needed help or a hug or hot cocoa or _something_ … now? Some three months (and a couple weeks) on from the fact? And only noticing at all because Misha looks like he's about to have a temper tantrum over his body telling him to fuck himself and getting back to a happier weight?

Misha sighs, and tries (but fails) to yank his wrist away. (He mostly fails because, Hell with that — like Jensen's letting him play the, "I'm sad now, let me retreat emotionally and be stupid about things" card.) …And another sigh. A roll of his eyes that he doesn't even try to hide. "You can stop blaming yourself for shit, Jenny, okay?" he says, and immediately adds, "Don't even tell me you're not… You've got that over-thinking things look on."

"Fair enough," Jensen huffs, shrugging. "So how about you explain yourself and let me over-think the part where _you are such a moron sometimes_ and, excuse me, but if you missed the memo the last three times we've done this, _you start looking like Skeletor_ when you let yourself get too far under, like… one-fifty-eight-ish. Some of us would even say one-sixty."

"That's your opinion—"

"And Vicki's. And Jared's. And Mark's. And Tall Mark's. And Genevieve's. And Danneel's. And don't roll your eyes at me, Meesh, I will call every single one of your exes to conduct a poll on this — don't think for a second that I'm above doing something illegal to find Richard's AWOL phone number, or an email address, or something, either."

" _It's complicated_ ," Misha hisses through grit teeth, cheeks picking up another twinge of pink as he tries to look away.

But Jensen's not having that, not right now — He catches Misha's chin with his free hand and drags the dumb bastard back into forced eye-contact, and he waits until Misha's eyes are locked on his own before saying: "What the Hell is so fucking complicated about, 'Ground Control to Major Misha: you're skinny enough as is at one-sixty-five, you bat-shit crazy _stick-insect_ '—"

And as abruptly as this whole shit started, Jensen cuts himself off.

It's not for lack of inspiration: Jensen has more thoughts on the matter that he could throw out there. Left unchecked, he could probably call Misha out on this for an hour, maybe more.

…But Misha's back to looking pale again.

And he's stopped gritting his teeth. Decided to let his mouth hang open instead.

And he's not fighting to get his wrist out of Jensen's grasp anymore, to say nothing of how he looks like he might cry.

Jensen sighs. Shaking his head, he lets go of Misha's chin, and instead puts his free hand to use, brushing some of Misha's dark bangs aside. "Look," he says. "Meesh… I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to push you or anything. Or to be a total dick about it. And we don't have to talk about it anymore if you don't want to—"

"I don't have an eating disorder, Jensen, and I'm not like… some kid whose dog just died — I can talk about it, just… not the _complicated_ parts."

Jensen still doesn't see what's so fucking complicated about some of the shit he's heard from Vicki, Mark, and Tall Mark — the shit that keeps Jensen from pointing it out, because Misha doesn't know he knows about it — and okay. Sure. Fine. Whatever. He has heard Misha's spiel before: _I don't have an eating disorder; I have an anxiety disorder that sometimes has a negative effect on my eating habits and my weight_ — and maybe it's just Jensen, but… that sounds way too close to what an _eating disorder_ is for him to take any comfort in the distinction.

But Misha's upset, now. And Jensen would bet anything that Misha's screaming internally and repressing some desire to flail about how _fuck his life, this was just supposed to be a demonstration, not a bloody court martial_. And pushing Misha any further might make him start going pear-shaped about all this again…

So Jensen just nods, and lets go of Misha's wrist, and says, "Just let me know if, y'know. Helping me with this is trigger-y for you. Or if you need anything, or like… if I should just shut my big, fat mouth and let you work it out yourself, or… whatever."

He smiles a bit when Misha actually manages a little chuckle. "Helping you's going to be good for me, too, Jen," he says. "Promise… I just. I know it's totally weird—"

"Yeah, like the DeForrest Kelley zombie _wasn't_?"

"But… cooking for people makes me feel better. I just… don't like actually putting on weight myself. I'm hypersensitive to it, so it feels weird, and—"

"And you're totally spewing some jacked up rationalizations to get out of talking about your feelings, and _that_ frown says that you're still pissed off at how well I can read you—"

"Which I have every right to be, considering you learned all your little profiler tricks from watching _Criminal Minds_ and cribbing my Psych 101 notes." Misha purses his lips, bites the lower one — and pauses just long enough for Jensen to ruffle his hair. "…You know, sometimes you're lucky you're adorable or I'd donate your body to my continued attempts at playing _Herbert West: Reanimator_."

"Yeah, sure, whatever, Lovecraft," Jensen snickers, and in a flash, goes serious again: "I mean it, though, Meesh. …Just promise me that you're gonna take care of yourself, too, alright? …No skipping meals to study, or crazy all-nighters unless you totally have to, or any of the wonky, self-destructive shit, alright? …Do not make me make you pinkie swear to have dinner with me every night. I'm just undignified enough to do that."

Misha responds to this by pinching Jensen's belly — which normally wouldn't be a bad thing, but there's no warning, and he does it… sort of hard. It doesn't hurt, not really, but Jensen yelps and, judging from the glint in Misha's eyes, he wanted that kind of a reaction. "Jenny, this has been… way, way too maudlin for any time before I've had my fucking coffee, so… yes. I promise to take care of myself, too, and now we're going to figure out what we are actually here for so you can go be a peach and caffeinate me."

"And then you'll make us breakfast?" Jensen smirks — he doesn't feel like smirking, but he thinks it's better if Misha doesn't know that.

"Brunch, technically," Misha says, letting slip another yawn. "But… yes. You fix up my coffee, and I'll make us breakfast."

 

The day gets better after their detour through making Jensen worry, starting with how Misha clears the air by wrapping his tape-measure around Jensen's waist. His fantasies had a point: he's not ready for the size-40 jeans that he and Jared bought a couple weeks ago… but at the same time, Jensen's heart skips a couple beats when Misha tells him that he's clocking in at _a smidge over thirty-eight inches_ … The only reason Jensen keeps himself contained, just throwing his arms around Misha's shoulders instead of squealing and tackling him, is that there's no way Jensen's going to send them to the ER now.

It'd be depressing, and it'd ruin the whole day, and seriously: _We smashed our heads on the bathroom tiles because sometimes Jensen acts like a five-year-old when he's excited…_? That's an even worse excuse to visit the emergency room than Misha getting a concussion because Jensen harassed him out of bed.

Things continue getting better once Misha sets up the talking witchcraft scale for him. There's some round of button-pushing that Jensen doesn't even try to understand, but that Misha explains as setting up Jensen's "profile," and once Misha lets him up onto the smooth white plastic platform, the pleasant computerized voice greets Jensen with good news: _Hello, **Jensen**. Today, your weight is **two-hundred and twenty-three** pounds. For your height of **six** feet and **one** inch, your weight is **overweight**. Thank you. Goodbye._

Which might not be the biggest news — it's not like Jensen's already tipping the scales at two-fifty or something like that — but it's still pretty freaking awesome.

Better still are Misha's ideas for their last free Saturday: Jensen's sold when Meesh sits him down on the sofa with a couple family-size bags peanut butter M&M's and an order to amuse himself with cartoons or something while Misha gets to cooking. Then comes brunch, with omelettes, Misha's special French toast — "Here, 'special' just means it's a family recipe… Granted, I think this just means Grandpa Krushnic stole it from someone and we're not going to acknowledge that, but it really _is_ good… you want maple syrup or jam on that, Jenny?" — and more bacon than Jensen thought they had in the fridge.

Misha feeds Jensen into a stupor so thick that he doesn't even notice how tight his stomach's getting, and after brunch, he takes Jensen up on a day of dicking around, just playing old games on Jensen's N64. For every round of minigames, or Mario Kart, or Super Smash Brothers that Misha wins, Jensen gets one of the chocolate chip cookies that Misha whips up; for every round that Misha wins, Jensen gets _two_ cookies. And by the time that dinner rolls around, Jensen's not sure if he can handle any more food.

But, as it turns out, he can handle it — and even if he can't, Misha helps him through it.

Of course, it helps that Misha apparently learned how to cook from God or something — a suggestion that he dismisses with a shrug and an, "It's really nothing… I mean, I just picked up a couple things here and there… Mostly in high school. Though… college student cooking taught me to improvise better… Anybody can learn to cook, Jen, y'know?"

"Not me," Jensen snickers. "I don't care what the talking Pixar rat and the fat French guy say… Meesh, I can set water on fire — and not like in that metaphorical, Adele-writes-a-breakup-song way. Like, I've actually set water on fire."

Rolling his eyes, Misha shoves a forkful of lasagna into Jensen's mouth before he can say anything else. "See, I know you're exaggerating about that because Jared _told me about it_ , loser. You didn't set the water on fire; you set fire to the oil sitting on top of the water. And it was an _accident_ , not incompetence…" He pauses, and… there's something kind of off about the smile he gets — it's fond, and affectionate, and there's something kind of off about it, but Jensen can't quite put his finger on what.

With another shrug, a slower one, Misha says, "Seriously, Jen… you can learn to cook. Anybody can…" — and Jensen can't help thinking that… there's something ever-so-slightly off about the way that Misha says this too. Like, quieter than Misha usually gets. As though he's maybe scared of something, or trying not to say something.

Jensen frowns. Blinks. Shakes his head by way of trying to shake himself around — he's probably just getting some early-onset food coma or something. Imagining that… whatever tricks his mind's trying to play on him are for real. "Yeah, well…" he says, sighing and reaching over to ruffle Misha's hair. " _You_ can learn to quit holding out on me, jackass — seriously, first the kink, now the cooking… And here I thought you were just some cute face who learned how to bake from a box mix."

Misha smirks and his cheeks twinge pink, and he's about to say something that Jensen presumes is snarky… but when Jensen moves the wrong way — gasps in pain to go with it — _sweet Jesus fucking fuck fuck…_ Jensen hasn't eaten enough to hurt in ages — the pain shocks up from his stomach, pushing everywhere and… God, this can't end well — _fuck my fucking life, I'm really gonna explode this time, I can just feel it…_

Misha's fork clatters to the plate and, in a flash, he's got his hands on Jensen's belly. He's on the floor, kneeling between Jensen's legs, before Jensen can think about it — he only even notices that Misha's moved because he groans, slides back in his chair, and his knee hits Misha's shoulder. When he tries to apologize, Misha just whispers _ssssh_ , rubbing his skinny fingers everywhere he can, pressing them into Jensen's soft, tender flab as well as the straining curve of Jensen's waistline, the places where he's too full for comfort… And slowly, Misha gets Jensen's stomach to calm down and play nicely.

He even keeps it in check while he spoon-feeds Jensen an ice cream sundae for dessert; later, he helps Jensen into bed, and doesn't even ask if Jensen needs them, just kneels at his bedside to administer more belly-rubs.

And, on Sunday morning, for the first time since Jared left, Jensen doesn't wake up feeling hungry. The only thing he feels is warm, and sated, and accomplished — and, in the back of his mind, Jensen's more resolved in his mission than ever… Asking Misha to help him out might be the best decision Jensen's made lately, and the thought of how big he's going to get makes Jensen feel kind of better about how far away from him Jared is, takes a little of the edge off of waiting for Jared to get home, to see his face when he gets his first eyeful of _Project: Fat-Ass_ 's stunning results.


	5. Ice Cream Cake Is A Total Bitch.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha wants to know why everyone seems to think he's out to ruin Jensen's virtue, Jensen mostly wants to bust the button off some jeans, and Saturday has a case of emotional whiplash.

It all starts with the Marks.

It's two weeks into his and Jensen's project, and given it's Saturday, Misha wanders down to Heller's to get the grocery shopping done. He leaves Jensen alone, with some breakfast, some brownies, a freezer full of ice cream, and the order to be a good boy and try to get through the two pints of Chunky Monkey by the time Misha gets back — _Sure, you had a good breakfast_ , he said on his way out, knotting up the scarf Danneel knitted for him, _but unfortunately, your gut's still not capable of growing itself, so… Go on! Chop-chop! Make me proud, Jenny._

And, for once, he's actually managing to make good time, dodging around all the little old ladies, and the bumbling middle-class fathers who are clearly rushing to get snacks for their kids' soccer games, and the lost freshmen out on their first weekend off-campus. Misha would even promote himself to Heller's Market Ninja…

Except that the Marks have to go and _ruin everything_ , just by being there and nearly crashing into his cart when he rounds a corner into the aisle of box cake mixes. Even though Misha manages not to hit them, Sheppard — the Mark he dated, once upon a time — smirks on as the wheels hit a wet spot of freshly cleaned (and unmarked) linoleum… as Misha's feet follow them and proceed to skid around because, fuck his life, his sandals don't have traction… and, finally, as Pellegrino — _Tall_ Mark — catches Misha around the waist and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug to keep him from crashing to the floor.

And, true to form, neither of them do anything to stop the cart from hitting one of the shelves, knocking all the boxes on it askew and making Misha's palms itch with a desire to go and alphabetize the entire fucking selection, first by brand and then by the specific kind of mix. Even though he doesn't work here. Even though he almost got caught and (possibly) banished from the store the last time he did this. Even though that stunt and similar shenanigans made Mister Heller fire him in the first place, back in freshman year.

This desire dissipates at the feeling of Tall Mark's stubble scratching on his neck, of a predominantly unwelcome nuzzle being given without permission, of Tall Mark's chest rubbing up on Misha's back as though demanding that he notice how _not ripped like some ancient underpants_ Tall Mark's letting himself get — and with a grunt, Misha struggles. Pushes against Tall Mark's arms and tries to pry himself free. Tall Mark chuckles and tightens his grip, and even if he _is_ (rather unsuccessfully) trying to shed the athletic build in favor of a beer gut, he's still stronger than Misha is.

He'd have the height advantage, even if Misha weighed more than he did — a faintly horrifying possibility, just because Misha wants to believe that Tall Mark weighs a good deal more than his build lets on. And Sheppard's wearing that insipid smirk of his, the one that says _he knows about something_ … Misha sighs and slumps into Tall Mark's hold.

"You know," he huffs by way of giving Tall Mark a parting shot (and, on some level, letting BOTH of them know that he's not giving up), "if you were really getting the results you want, you wouldn't have to sexually harass me to make me notice them. It's a _really simple_ concept: eat more, work out less, get belly, rub it all over someone who _isn't me_ because _I'm not interested_."

"Oh, Pumpkin," Tall Mark sighs. "I'm working on moving on from you, I really am… but this is just a business call. …Shepp needed the muscle."

"Indeed, I did," Shepp says, smirk cutting deeper into his dimples, sharper across his pudgy face. "You'd be able to outrun me and this question just can't be avoided." Even knowing that he'll regret this, Misha rolls his eyes and asks what's so important that the Marks had to accost him in the damn grocery store. Chuckling, Shepp closes the distance between them and ruffles Misha's hair. "Ignorance really is adorable on you, darling — but that being said: we, on behalf of… most everyone with whom you choose to associate, are here to ask what, exactly, you are playing at with one, Jensen Ackles."

Misha blinks.

He furrows his brow and wrinkles his nose.

He stares at Shepp. _Gapes_ at Shepp. Waits for someone to jump out from _somewhere_ and shout that he's on some candid camera reality show.

But nothing happens; Shepp just gives him an impatient smile and says, "No, really, Misha — we have nothing better to do than wait here all day for you to answer this very simple question: what are you playing at with Jensen."

"Not that we'd accuse him of being overly emotional," Tall Mark clarifies, snuggling at Misha in a way that might actually feel nice, if he didn't have his biceps lodged around the middle of Misha's ribcage. "But… well, everybody knows that he's the sweet, sensitive one, and it's not just every day that sweet, sensitive types let their boyfriends go abroad and… just turn up all smiling and packing down the snacks like it's nothing whatsoever."

"We thought it might've just been coincidental, of course — after all, it's not as though he's just going to mope for the entire time that Jared's gone… That's not like him, either."

"But we rather expected differently out of him. More in the vein of just, drawing his little comics and making himself cheer up that way…"

"Maybe dragging you out to see some farcical rom-com and sneaking liquor in so you two can get so drunk that you have to call me to drive you home."

"Oh, that happened _one fucking time_ , Shepp," Misha says. He wriggles under Tall Mark's hold again and, for a moment, he gets the upper hand: a bit more room to move, enough force behind his squirming to knock Tall Mark off his balance… But Tall Mark's still the athlete here, and all that comes out of Misha's attempted escape is that Tall Mark lowers his arms down under Misha's ribs. Tightens his grip like he's giving Misha a Heimlich maneuver. Manages to get Misha's feet off the floor by about an inch.

Misha fucking hates tall people.

Granted, Shepp's only five-eight, five-eight-and-a-half, but looking down at his devilish expression, Misha can't say that he's exceptionally fond of this little twat either, at least not right now. On the one hand, Shepp's grin and the attitude he's going just screams, _yes, ex-boyfriend, I really want you to punch me in the teeth, I got all that expensive orthodontic work in high school for nothing and the reason I'm playing hopscotch on your nerves at the moment is because I need an excuse to go to the emergency room and shamelessly hit on Handsome Nurse Sebastian. Please, oh please, knock my teeth out Misha, I'll do anything._

On the other hand, though: at least Shepp's easy on the eyes. Lord only knows why he gets all scrubbed and throws on a clean outfit for the dirty business of harassing people in the grocery store, but the hoodie looks cute on him, with its screenprint of the TARDIS and the way Mark wears it, zipper open, showing off his slightly-too-tight t-shirt and how it sits on his round, ample midsection. Incidentally, the shirt is one of Misha's favorites: a simple black one, with a white, cartoony design of Shakespeare and _PROSE BEFORE HOES_ scrawled in just the right place as to highlight the curve of Shepp's belly.

It occurs to Misha that he's been slack in Tall Mark's hold for too long, and that he should go back to fighting for his freedom… but he has to admit: he's pretty fond of seeing that his handiwork's still kicking around on Shepp's frame, even though they haven't been an item since Misha's freshman (and Shepp's junior) year. While he wasn't _slender_ when they first hooked up — all flyaway, tousled black hair, with the little beginnings of his gut… Nothing much at all. Just an indication that he had an appetite and liked to drink on the weekends more than he liked to work out or do anything silly like that.

He probably hasn't put on that much weight in the time since they split and Misha wound up dating Richard, then Katherine, then Matt, Jeff, and Danneel… but Shepp's gotten a little bigger — Misha remembers this t-shirt fitting him better a while ago, riding up on him a little less… But Tall Mark squeezes him again, and Misha shakes himself around.

"You don't even _like Jensen_ ," he _barely_ manages to spit out at Shepp — _manages_ here meaning that getting the words out hurts like Misha's trying to yank out his own teeth without anesthetic. "What the fuck do you care about preserving his virtue? …Plus, they're called graphic novels, not _little comics_. Get it right, dicks."

"That implies that they have chapters," Tall Mark points out, shrugging and (accidentally… Misha hopes) jerking Misha closer to him, a little further up the floor. "I mean, I know it's just some silly semantics, but technically, he hasn't progressed to graphic novels just yet…"

"Which is all just dodging the issue at hand, really," Shepp says, and lets his smile get… a little nicer. Kinder. More approachable. Less like he's hiding a switchblade in his back pocket and just waiting for his chance to shiv Misha for… some incomprehensible Shepp reason. "We're not here because of Jensen, Mish-mish; we're here because of you. Because we're your friends… Well. I'm here because I'm your friend, and Legs up there is here, as you intuited, because I asked him to come be my muscle and he agreed out of hopeless, unfortunate love for you. One that you won't reciprocate, even though he's trying to pudge up a little for you. To win your ridiculous, crafty little heart."

"It's just a silly crush, Mark," Tall Mark sighs (and for a brief, shining moment, Misha almost wants to hug him back). "And I said I'm getting over it…"

"Yeah, the stubble-burn on my neck says differently." Misha can't help rolling his eyes — and he's rewarded for this with a swift _thwack!_ on the top of the head from Shepp.

"Be nice, blue eyes," Shepp coos, faux-pouting at him. "We could care less about Jenny Ackles and his so-called virtue. As I said: we're here out of concern for you. And concern for your heart. And how, if you continue playing at whatever game you and Jensen-mouse have going on while the Jared-cat's away, then come February, even if — by some unprecedented miracle — he recognizes that you're entirely enamored with his oblivious arse, he's just going to go running back to his cervine boyfriend and you're going to get your emotions crushed. Just as though they are being run over by a steamroller and a stampede of Jared's extended family."

Misha sighs and arches an eyebrow at Shepp, giving him a patented Misha Dimitri Collins Is Thoroughly Unimpressed With Your Shenanigans stare. "I'm pretty sure moose don't stampede," he huffs. "And I'm _not. playing. at. anything_ with Jensen."

"So he's just… fattening himself up with no help from you or anything?"

"Which we know is a big old lie," Tall Mark says, airily as ever and, Misha imagines, staring off into space, contemplating the intricate mysteries of the dots on the ceiling. "Because we _saw_ the two of you down at Friendly's the other day, and you were totally enabling him on that pizza binge."

Groaning, Misha knocks his head back into Tall Mark's chest. And once more for good measure, since Tall Mark's chest isn't hard enough to give him the satisfaction that he'd get from banging his head against a wall. "It's _completely platonic_ , enablement, dick-monkeys," he insists, writhing around again. This just makes him feel like a fish flopping around on dry land, for all the good it does to flounder around the way he is. "Jensen wanted to put a present together for Jay and he asked for my _help_. …What, you've seen how those two carry on and you think I'm the only one with a fetish? I'm just…"

He heaves a sigh, one that comes out heavier than a burlap sack full of bowling balls. Once again, Misha lets himself go limp. God, he has to get back to the fucking gym. He should've been able to get himself out of this bastard's hold by now. "There's nothing going on with me and Jensen. Nothing that hasn't been going on for a while now — aside from me being his temporary feeder until Jared's back, it's just… business as usual, okay? No risk to me, or my feelings, or Jensen's virtue, or to any other upset-able apple carts, or anything like that. And if you'd be so kind, I'd really like to be able to eat this week, so…"

Misha frowns down at Shepp, who, in return, gives him a long, scrutinizing stare — but, ultimately, nods and waves his hand. With one last, unwelcome snuggle, Tall Mark lets Misha drop back to the floor. And he lets himself think that the Marks are done with him… and then, as he makes a move to retrieve his wayward cart, Misha gets the surprise of Shepp's hand on his shoulder and an uncharacteristically sympathetic frown on Shepp's face.

"I'm serious, though," he says, waggling his eyebrows and lowering his voice for the first time since this whole stupid inquisition got started. "If it ever gets to be too much for you… I'm single. You're single… I like you; you like me… Ring me up sometime… We'll play my _Princess Bride_ drinking game and have a little bit of friends-with-benefits fucking around… I still haven't found someone who knows how to treat my love handles quite so well as you do…"

It's a tempting offer, Misha must admit… but the fact that there are potential witnesses is the _only_ reason Shepp gets to keep his teeth for bringing it up in public.

 

Next comes Genevieve, who finds Misha in the aisle full of soda pop, canned juice, Kool Aid mix, and other chemical-infested drinks. She walks with him at a relaxed, lazy pace, making pleasant conversation about… everything and nothing. Just like they never broke up — though, on that note, Misha guesses it helps that they were friends before they dated. She's dieting. At least, she's lost weight since Misha saw her last — which, granted, was in May, taking her to the airport the day after graduation.

Granted, she hasn't lost _that_ much weight, not that Misha can see… Mostly, he thinks she's toned up a little bit. She looks curvier, instead of fat, the way she was when he got done with her… Well. Rather, when she decided that they were better as friends. She still has her cute little tummy, the most obvious place where she's lost weight: there's less of it, hints that she's put on some muscle underneath the chub… but it still looks all pudgy and soft and inviting, poking out a bit against her Jem and the Holograms t-shirt and, without her doing anything (at least, not that Misha can really see), begging him to rub it.

And oh, God, he wants to… He's just not sure if that's _allowed_ for two crazy not-kids-anymore who aren't supposed to be dating anymore. …Either way, though, he figures that looking isn't touching, so taking in the view isn't a crime. She's a gorgeous girl, with a sparkling personality to match, and Misha's just appreciating that. More than once, he purposefully lags behind her, just to ogle how tight the jeans she's wearing are on her, how her hips sway as she saunters around amongst the drinks. The denim might as well be painted on… How her pants don't split their seems is beyond him. Maybe she's just found some kind of way to bend the laws of physics to her will. Misha wouldn't put it past her.

Once she finally catches him at it, calls him on how he's _undressing her with his eyes_ , Misha feels his cheeks flush, warm and pink, and immediately jumps into covering his ass: "Well, I wouldn't be so absorbed in leering if I'd seen you in, what, three… four months? Even a fucking Facebook picture would've been cool with me."

"Yeah, sorry about that," she says in that endearing, bored-sounding way that comprises her default voice. She's not really as much of a bitch as people think, and Misha knows it… but when she talks, she sounds so smug and self-superior. Misha still loves it about her. Not least because they both do that sort of thing — scaring people away by seeming stand-offish when they're really not. With a shrug, she explains, "I sorta spent the summer backpacking and hitch-hiking around Canada with Katie — no Internet access in most places, no real desire to get online anyway because the adventure got so breathtaking. Girl genius almost got us arrested by Mounties in Vancouver and for the dumbest reason, you won't even believe it."

Misha asks her to try him, because really… after living with Jensen (and, by extension, living with Jared, since… well, when he's not abroad, he's over often enough that he sometimes chips in for rent), there's not much Misha wouldn't believe.

"Well, you remember her fake ID-making business thing?" Gen pauses to compare prices on different packs of glass bottled Coca-Cola, then gives Misha A Look, as though asking why he hasn't indicated that he remembers this. Once he nods, she says, "So… she's nineteen. Legal in Canada. And we went to a bar, to get drinks with this friend of hers who lived up there… Instead of just using her _real license_ , girlfriend whips out the stupid fake one that says she was born in 'sixty-nine. And the bartender actually checks it. And it might've just been fine, but… there was this cute Mountie chick sitting down at the other end of the bar. We were just lucky that Officer Tatas was already sort of shit-faced and let us get out of trouble by buying her next martini."

"Did you make out with her next?" Misha asks, adding three twelve-pack boxes of Diet Dr. Pepper to his cart — they're on sale, and he needs his crack. Gen snickers, but stares at him like he's babbling at her in Klingon. "I mean, if I were a cute, possibly lesbian Mountie chick in Vancouver, I wouldn't let lips like yours go until I extorted a kiss out of them."

Gen laughs again and playfully shoves his shoulder — and he's trying to be respectful, he really is… but her shirt's too low-cut, and she hasn't lost any of the weight that went to her boobs, and Misha can't help eyeing her cleavage as it jiggles under his nose (…several inches under his nose; Gen's still as short as ever). "Yeah, well, I don't think Jensen would appreciate you expressing that interest, Misha McSuper-Mountie," she says, smacking Misha on the ass as she saunters up ahead of him again.

He stares at her back for a moment, not taking in the view so much as he's wondering if his heart's stopped — and once he brings himself back to reality, catches up with her, he stammers out some half-assed, _I have no idea what you're talking about, we're just friends, you're just imagining things, whoever told you about anything else is lying, especially if it was the Marks…_

Gen cuts him off with another laugh and accompanying ass-smack. "Well, mostly I was fucking with you, dude, but… Now that you bring it up, I _did_ wonder why you two looked so much… closer than usual why I saw you down at Java Hut the other day." Misha wrinkles his nose and asks when Gen was at Java Hut; she just shrugs. "I was dicking around in the back with Katherine… She sort of hurt her back doing some fucked up Kama Sutra thing with Matt and she needed help moving stock around."

"…I don't think the Kama Sutra works like that," Misha tries to point out, only getting Gen to chortle at him and dismissively wave her hand around.

"Whatever, she needed help and I totally saw you feeding him those muffins. I thought I was watching the adorable gay kids on Glee. You know… if one of the adorable gay kids on Glee had a burgeoning muffin-top and was like… running for Crown Prince of Chubville."

Just at the memory of that incident, Misha blushes — his cheeks going hotter than they have since this whole thing started, since Jensen invaded his lap and still managed not to notice the boner Misha got until it got pointed out to him. And all he really has to say for himself is a mumbled correction that Jensen has more than _just_ a muffin-top… Which gets him another ass-slap and a laugh so raucous that, down the aisle, some old woman startles and glares at him and Gen like they're trying to start a riot.

Until this shit today, with three people ( _so far_ ) acting like he's all but throwing himself at Jensen, he's entertained this notion that his crush isn't actually that obvious. That his behavior's maybe a little affectionate, sure, but… Not that much. Not enough to actually attract anybody's attention… Okay. Fine. He fed Jensen muffins. Four of them — and not those noncommittal, mini-muffin abominations that Jenny wants Misha to bring for his bedside stash, but the full-on, enormous horking Java Hut muffins. They got through two triple-chocolate ones, a lemon poppyseed, and a blueberry — and maybe Gen didn't spy on it, but after Jensen had put those four away, he slid Misha thirty bucks and told him to buy whatever he wanted next…

And so there came a slice of carrot cake. A super-sized vanilla latte, a couple cookies, some brownies, the biggest piece of cherry-chocolate cheesecake in the dessert counter, an onion bagel with extra cream cheese — and, because Misha hadn't felt particularly creative, more muffins. Five more of them. And, though Jensen helped himself quite a bit too (and insisted on splitting the last muffin because he was quote-unquote _tired of Misha giving bedroom eyes to the triple-chocolate ones_ ), Misha guesses that… okay, _maybe_ he was a little affectionate through this whole process. Maybe he leaned a little too close to Jensen, or paid too much attention to his beautiful, chapped lips as they wrapped around his forkfuls of delicious treat… Maybe he looked to eager to get Jensen out to the car, where he could rub that strained, tight-packed belly in peace and without having to reach under the table.

Not to mention without making Katherine yell at him about not giving handjobs in the shop — "Which is totally unfair," he tells Genevieve with a huff and a shake of his head, "because the only time something even remotely like that happened was with Jeff, and I was the one receiving, not the one giving — and it's not like it was really _pleasurable_ either, since he was trying to make me own up to my kinkiness in public and… no. Just _no_. Not after Richard convinced everyone that I'm into DP just because we had a threesome with Shepp. _Never. again._ "

Genevieve pauses. She blinks at him for a moment — briefly lets her eyebrows arch in shock, but lets them fall back to their unimpressed default state rather quickly. "You know… for being the most obnoxiously out polyamorously-inclined bisexual I've ever met, you are _such. a. fucking. closet. case_ — Jesus Christ, your graduate advisor even knows you're into BDSM, why wouldn't you just… shut up and be open about the part where you're kind of a chubby-chaser? It'd probably make you happier. Y'know, at least you'd have less stress kicking around that melon if you didn't have to keep pretending."

While he's word-vomited at her, they've moved on into the aisle full of crackers, chips, and other salty snack food. Glancing around (mostly to make sure no one's paying them any mind), Misha wonders how much damage he could do with the family-size boxes of Cheez-Its… Not enough to make throwing it at her head worth the effort. He sighs.

"I'm not a _chubby-chaser_ ; that implies a certain level of objectification that I try to avoid, just because… yes, I find some extra weight especially attractive, and yes, I take part in the activities associated with the community of people who have similar inclinations, but it won't mean anything if I don't like the person for who they are." Vaguely, Misha wishes he'd shut up sometimes because… really. If he hadn't been in a self-dug hole by now, then he definitely is now. "I just… I have my reasons for not wanting to talk about it with people, you know?"

"Yeah, FYI, I still don't get how you're a _chubby-chaser_ and still so obsessed with your own tininess—"

Misha shoves her shoulder playfully — or trying to come off as playful, probably overcompensating just because he's getting that nauseous, nervous feeling he always gets when someone brings this subject up. "I'm not _tiny_ ," he huffs as she shoves back (and hard enough to actually knock him off-balance). "Shut up! I'm _not_ — I don't know why you and Jensen keep saying that, I've actually gained a few pounds since May… No! Don't explain your name-calling logic to me! That was not me telling you to explain it!"

Gen rolls her eyes, huffs that if he's put on weight, then she can't tell. Briefly, Misha wonders if she's going to drag him back to the soda aisle and beat him over the head with a two-liter of Coke. "So… you have reasons for this closeted-kink-ness thing of yours, and you don't think that you're _drowning_ in that fugly sweater, and… do you feel like unloading on Auntie Genevieve at all, instead of letting it build up until you molest Jensen?"

"I _like_ this sweater…" It's one of his favorites, actually: blue, with a black stripe and a pattern of llamas across the chest and little yarn dangly-bobs that don't actually do anything, beyond giving him something to do with his hands. Gen protests that he likes it because he has no taste, but Misha carries on, trying to seem unfettered: "And anyway… my reasons are complicated, going over them would take a while—"

"It's Saturday. Like I'm fucking _doing anything_ — at least… like I'm fucking doing anything that talking to you would fucking _interrupt_."

"Well, maybe I don't fucking _want_ to go over them, how about that?" Her face falls — sure, she's emoting, but it's a frown and not one of her wicked smirks, or pretty smiles, and that makes Misha's stomach twist with guilt — and he has to sigh again. He's doing it too often, these days; he really is.

"That was bitchy," he says, his voice low and earnest. "I'm sorry; you didn't deserve that. …But I really don't want to talk about it, okay? It's not you. I don't talk about it with Jensen or Vicki, either… Also, I'm not going to _molest_ Jensen. Our arrangement is entirely platonic — and in the non-romantic, non-sexual, just friends, his skull is thicker than his belly's getting sense. Not in the Allegory of the Cave sense."

The philosophy joke gets her to chuckle — and while he's distracted by her tits again, she gets a hand around his wrist, starts dragging him back on course and he fumbles behind her, just trying to keep up and a grip on his cart, besides. "Come on, skinny," she says. "Since you're not going to ruin my cousin's relationship, you get a treat."

 

Gen's idea of giving Misha a treat seems to consist of hauling him over to the bakery section of the store and putting an ice cream cake into the cart, despite him telling her that no, no, stop, he and Jensen have too much crap in the freezer already.

All she does in response to this is shrug. "So I guess you're eating it when you get home."

"And I walked here!" he protests. "How am I supposed to carry a bunch of bags _plus_ a fucking cake?"

This time, she actually reaches out and thwaps him on the arm. "I'll drive you home, then, stupid. I, unlike you, am not completely crazy."

Misha wants to protest that he isn't crazy — that sure, his and Jensen's place is a couple few too blocks away to manage with an ice cream cake, but that he hasn't been to the gym in far too long, and he needed the walk, and really, he shouldn't even be buying the cake in the first place — but as he opens his mouth to do so, he feels someone linking arms with him. And before she chirps at them, _hey, kids! How's tricks?_ , before he even looks down at her, he knows who it is. He recognizes her as soon as the scent of her pomegranate shampoo hits his nostrils.

Vicki. His twin sister. Who, irritatingly, is the skinny twin, and who is smiling like the cat who broke into the canary cage.

"Viiiiiiiickiiiiiii," Gen sighs, throwing on an exaggerated air of aggravation and tossing in a nasal whine to go with it. "Tell your brother he's being _stupid_ and he and Jensen totally need this delicious-looking ice cream cake."

"Consider your options wisely, Vicki," Misha hisses, glaring daggers at Gen for dreaming to push this notion. "And when you're done considering, pick the one that involves you telling Genevieve to stop meddling in what I eat. Remember: I know where you sleep."

"So does she, though," Vicki points out, and nods her head in Gen's direction. "That said… I dunno if I can really condone rewarding Misha right now, Genny. I mean, sure, A-plus for being clever enough to wait until Jared's out of the country to make a move on Jensen, but minus several billion points for, you know. The whole… mildly amoral aspect of it."

Misha clenches his teeth. He digs his nails into his palms, just to keep himself from making proper fists and _punching his fucking sister_. His stomach lurches like he's going to be sick — and he's not sure that he'd mind it if he puked right now, just as long as he didn't upchuck on the grapes in his cart.

"For the last fucking time," he sighs, "I'm _not. playing. at. anything. with. Jensen_ — especially not trying to jump his bones just because Jared's not here to find out. Okay? I'm _just_ helping him fatten up as a favor to my best friend and his Sasquatch-esque sweetheart. …Are we all, like, clear on that? Can I stop having to justify myself now?"

Vicki hums. Looks up at with that inscrutable, pensive expression she gets when she's trying to read his mind — says, "So… if you're trying to get Jensen fat, then why wouldn't you want the ice cream cake? It's perfect for his diet, he'll probably love it… I see no reason not to take it home with you."

"Because Misha thinks _he's_ getting fat," Gen drawls. "So clearly, he can't do something nice for Jensen—"

"Oh my god, _stop it_ ," Misha snaps, just as he feels Vicki's freezing cold fingers slide under his sweater, tease at his stomach through his t-shirt. "Okay, okay, fine, cut out the emotional manipulation and I'll buy the stupid cake… You two can come back and help us eat it, though, because we seriously don't have any room for it in the fridge."

At least this arrangement gets both of them to smile and play along.

 

And at least Danneel, when she finds them, is upfront about what's on her mind.

She wanders into the frozen foods aisle while Misha's listening to Gen and Vicki debate which ice cream would go best with the cake. Never mind that it's an _ice cream cake_ , and never mind that Misha's already told them about the ice cream back at his and Jensen's place. Nope, they've decided that Misha's input is invalid, so he's just hanging back. Waiting for them to finish.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder.

Arching an eyebrow down at Danneel Ackles and her signature pensive pout.

And finally trying not to cry when she says, in her usual airy-fairy fashion, liberally throwing in the upward inflections, "So, like… I know we don't really talk that much or whatever, but I was just meaning to ask, uhm. And I know he's just my cousin, but Jen's really special to me? So, like… are your intentions with him entirely honorable? Because last I checked, he was head-over-heels for Jay, and I know you're into him, and Jay told me you're into that whole… fat guy kink thing like those two are, and if you're my new cousin-in-law, then I really need to make sure you're on-the-level and stuff."

Misha has never wanted to go crawl in a hole and die quite so much as he does now. "My intentions are completely platonic," he says, groaning, hiding his face in his hands, grinding his fingers into his nose. "My intentions have only ever been completely platonic. Jensen is my best friend and nothing more. I know he's putting on weight. He asked for my help. It's a surprise thing for Jared… okay?"

He forces himself to look back at her just in time to see Danneel give him a beaming grin. "Okay, great… One more question, though? …So, you're, like, gay… right?"

"Half-gay," Misha tells her, instinctively throwing out the joke Vicki made up for him when he first came out. Danneel pouts again, wrinkles her nose… Jesus Christ, Misha doesn't want to explain this whole thing. Not right now. Now when the only thing that would make him happy is _going home_ and getting away from all these _crazy fucking people_ who, for whatever reason, seem to think he's a Jensen-obsessed sexual predator who was just waiting for Jared to temporarily remove himself from the picture.

Misha sighs and clarifies, "It's just… I mean to say — I'm bisexual."

Danneel smiles again. "Okay, that's _awesome_! Because, like… this is kind of new to me, and I've only really talked to her once before, but Jay and Jensen say she's single and into girls too, so… What's a really good, _bisexual_ way to go reintroduce myself to Genevieve?"

This is just not Misha's day. Between the apparent mass decision that he's out to jump Jensen's bones and the fact that now Danneel's asking for help getting a date with his second-favorite ex-significant other… Misha sighs. He makes a few offhand, general suggestions, and doesn't watch Danneel go and apply them, mostly because trying not to bash his forehead into one of the freezer doors eats up most of his focus. At least Danneel wasn't interested in going after Richard, but… then again, no one really knows what _happened_ to Richard after he and Misha broke up.

Well, aside from the part where Richard transferred to Lord Only Knows Where University, deleted his Facebook and his Twitter and… pretty much all traces of himself on the Internet, changed his number without telling anybody, and, all in all, left Misha wondering if he was, like, the sexual opposite of King Midas: if everything his dick touched fell apart and turned to trash.

Not that he enjoys sounding like some petulant kid, but… what happened wasn't fucking fair. And it's not fucking fair that, even now, so long after they split up, there are still just… moments like this one, wherein everything comes rushing back to him and it doesn't matter how long it's been or how many exes he had after Richard. He just feels the same way he did when their, "amicable split" first started turning into, "and then Richard fell off the face of the planet," like there's a cat using his lungs as a scratching post and a block of lead chained to his heart.

Misha doesn't even know if he can blame Richard for it. Part of him wants to — part of him wants to scream, and throw things, and shake that tiny bastard for swooping in, right as Misha's crush on Jensen was at its most unbearable, and making Misha love him, and then just fucking disappearing without a word when he swore they'd stay friends… But he can't even pretend that it's all Richard's fault. Richard had troubles at home, ones he alluded to and mentioned but never wanted to explain in full, and his mom was sick or something, and even without the full story, Misha can't blame him. He knows that there are just some things you can't control.

And now he can't shake off the chill that falls on him, or the empty feeling that spreads through him, or the way everything he has on his to do list and everything bad about the past two weeks comes charging out at him — the assignments he has to turn in to Dr. Singer, the assignments he needs to grade for Dr. Beaver, the mind-numbingly poor quality of this first round of Freshman Comp. essays, the fact that some of these kids got into college at all, the fact that he's stuck teaching them all fucking year… Misha feels empty, but he wants to vomit. His head's reeling and taking his deep, meditative breaths only helps a little bit.

And underneath everything, his mind throws out this notion that none of this would be happening if he'd bribed Matt or Katherine into hacking Richard's old email addresses or doing something tech-savvy to hunt him down, or if he'd fought harder against the break up in the first place… Richard _said_ it wasn't really anything about him, but does anyone ever really mean that, when they dump someone? They usually only argued about two things: how Richard didn't want to talk about his problems and how Misha didn't want the weight gain to be mutual for reasons that he refused to explain. Misha could've done more… Could've been more helpful, less of a brat…

Even when he points out to himself how illogical this is, how it's probably his anxiety acting up, at least on some level, and that inherently makes it irrational and therefore _stupid_ , Misha can't make the thoughts leave him alone. Can't get rid of the sudden compulsion to just… run to the bathroom and cry.

 

Danneel scores a few points in Misha's esteem when she bounds back over to him and hugs him like she wants to break his ribs. For one thing, she gets him to stop thinking about Richard, at least. For another, judging by how she starts rambling off ideas for what to wear on their date, she's _really excited_ about going out for pizza with Genevieve on Tuesday night, and… even though she was party to sending Misha's mood into a downward spiral, it's kind of adorable. And she's not a bad person. Maybe she'll make Gen happy, and Misha can be happy with that… sort of… vicariously… which is at least better than being completely miserable.

And, for a third, she's the only person today who actually stops to say, "By the way, Meesh? I'm really sorry if I like… put you on the spot, or made you feel super-awkward, or was like… not cool about asking you that stuff. You know. About Jenny. I didn't mean to be a bitch about it or anything, it's just… Hey. _Hey!_ "

She pauses and tugs at his sleeve until Misha returns to making eye-contact with her.

The wide-eyed frown she's wearing makes him want to hug her, and when she starts up her apology again, Misha can hear the earnestness straining her voice: "I really, really didn't mean to be a bitch about it, Meesh. Jenny means a lot to me, and maybe I'm still kind of not over the douche he dated in high school? And I know if you were his boyfriend, you'd make him super-happy because you're a sweetie, but… Jared makes him smile more than, like, anybody ever has, so… Yeah. I got kind of overprotective, but I didn't mean anything bad about you with it, okay?"

The smile Misha forces at her is wobbly, as is the nod that follows… but when she holds up a fist, he still manages to bump his into hers. "It's cool, Danny," he says with a sigh. "No hard feelings. …Jensen kind of inspired overprotective reactions in people. I can understand it."

Blissfully unaware as ever, she smiles until Misha could fit his index finger in her dimples. "Okay, awesome," she chirps. Without missing a beat, like there wasn't just a sweet moment going on, she launches back into Full Danneel Ramble Mode: "So you and Jensen are totally coming to my Halloween party, right? I know it's still kind of a while off, but six weeks isn't _really_ that long for planning a party, but I am going to go _all_ Mrs. Dalloway up in this piece—"

"You're going to have long, flowy, gorgeous if slightly overwritten thoughts about death, and parties, and the meaning of life, and how you kind of have Sapphic feelings for your best friend, and then a poet with battle fatigue is going to kill himself?"

Danneel wrinkles her nose and blinks at him again. "…I was just thinking about the whole, 'throwing a perfect party, kind of obsessing over it a bit much, but still making sure it's perfect' idea." She goes quiet for a moment, and when she starts running her fingers over his hair, Misha lets himself lean his head toward her hand. At least her hands are warm. "…You sure you're okay, sweetie? If I went and upset you, I didn't mean to, and I can fix it! Just… tell me what to do and I'll make it so, y'know?"

He sighs. Shrugs. Stares at his feet, which are suddenly about the most interesting thing in the world. "Yeah, no, Danny… I meant what I said — you're cool. We're cool. No hard feelings or anything, I just — I'll be fine… It just hasn't really been the best day so far, I guess."

Nothing against Danneel, but… somehow, between having Richard shoved back into the forefront of his mind, and the constant reminder that he can't have Jensen, and the fact that Gen and Vicki have both had moments of treating his body image issues like they don't exist, Misha can't help thinking that… well. Maybe the universe is more pissed off about his occasional crimes against nature than it's been letting on. And she really is a lovely person, when she's not being too loud or too misguided, but the last thing that Misha wants to do is talk about it.

 

As Misha, Gen, and Vicki finish up the shopping, Danneel bounces off on her own separate path. Misha tries to keep his mind clear, to avoid thinking about anything at all. And when this doesn't work, he tries to think of ways to improve his karma, since the universe is making it evident that he needs to get on that, like, yesterday.

Mostly, he ends up thinking that, when Jared gets back from England, he wants to kill the loudmouthed son of a bitch.

It's probably in bad form to kill his best friend's boyfriend, Misha supposes. Jensen would be upset, and Jared's really a nice guy. Even if he weren't, he makes Jensen happy and Misha can appreciate that. He _wants_ Jensen, sure, but even more than that, he wants Jensen to be _happy_ , even if it's not with him.

…Maybe he can compromise for a shock collar. Or sewing Jared's lips shut. Whatever gets that _giant goddamn gossiping mouth_ of his to shut up and keep a secret already. Misha could even just… bribe Jared with something. Not telling him about the project — not unless Jensen says he can — but Misha could find something that Gigantor the Talking Moose might want… It wouldn't be that hard… It could even be a Pokémon or something… Cas could break out his Gameboy and find something that Jared needs to catch them all.

But, on the other hand: Mackenzie Ackles corners him last, because Misha doesn't notice that she's the cashier in his aisle until he hears the telltale snap of gum and an equally biting question, "So, are you trying to bone my brother — the fat-ass brother, I mean, not Josh — or get him fatter, or what?"

Misha freezes up, drops the box of Jensen's s'mores granola bars on the conveyor belt. Grimacing for what must be the millionth time in the past hour or forty-five minutes or however long it's been, he splutters out, "…Ex. Excuse me?"

Misha's never really spoken to Jensen's little sister.

They've only ever been in the same room together all of twice: once, when Misha followed Jensen home for Christmas because his own parents were out of the country; and the other time was graduation.

Mackenzie sneers at Misha as though she's just inhaled rotting garbage, and once more snaps her gum. From anyone else, it might sound like just some random, irritating bad habit. From her, it sounds like she's cocking a gun and readying to aim it at Misha's head. "Well, I mean, Danny says you're into fat dudes, and Jensen's fat, you're best friends or whatever, and sure, you're no _Jared_ , but he's not here, and Jensen's a _guy_ so you get him doped up on pancakes or shit like that, and he'll just be like, 'well a hole's a hole,' so… I-Dee-Kay, are you trying to fuck him or aren't you?"

Misha wants to smack this girl. For one thing, she seems to have a distorted notion of what Jensen being a guy means with regards to his attitudes about sex. For another, she uses Internet slang in conversation. Ew. The only saving grace right now is that Vicki and Gen handle explaining to Mackenzie why she's wrong, thereby leaving Misha's brain free for plotting.

Except that, because Misha's brain hates him, it makes him spend the entire drive back to his and Jensen's place enduring thoughts of Mackenzie Ackles, snapping her gum and communicating entirely in Internet shorthand. He tries to bring Jared back into things, albeit in ways that are bitchy but non-lethal. Thinks that some half-baked, farcical revenge fantasies might cheer him up a little bit.

Except that, then, Jared starts snapping gum and talking at Misha in Mackenzie's voice, throwing out LOLs and IDKs and lolcat meme captions like some kind of verbal catapult.

Which puts Misha back at thinking about doing in his best friend's boyfriend when he knows that Jared doesn't deserve that treatment, not really.

Which, all things considered, is probably why his life's gotten so fucked up in the first place. He almost never _means_ it when he threatens people with anything, but it's not like the universe can really tell the difference… And at a red light, Misha glances out the backseat window. Lets his eyes meander over a crowd. Does a double-take when he thinks he sees Richard — and when he can't be sure, he just sighs and slumps against the door.

He really should work on fixing up his karma… But, then again, it's not like racking up a few more points on the naughty list will really fuck him up _that_ much. If he can know he's getting chubby, but still have Gen and Vicki convinced that he's so thin he absolutely _needs_ to have some ice cream cake _right STAT now_ , then why shouldn't a similar kind of logic apply to Misha's karma?

Sure, playing _Reanimator_ got a bunch of points stacked up against him… but maybe he's so far down that there's really nowhere left to go. A few stupid fancies that he won't act on can't hurt anyone, not least Jared, who's still safe because… Danneel was completely right, when she said that he makes Jensen smile like nobody else — at least not anyone that Misha's ever seen. Anyway, he can dream, can't he?


	6. A Little Extra Incentive.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha complains a lot and keeps up the threatening side of his overlord facade. Also, there's an impromptu party, Misha's anxiety gets the better of him, and Jensen deserves a merit badge for awesomeness.

"Jensen, I'm poisoning your boyfriend," Misha announces as he storms into the flat, carrying his share of the bags. He glances around just enough to see Jenny sitting at the table, right where Misha left him, in his boxer-briefs and t-shirt so as to keep him comfortable and better enable his quest to fatten up. He's surrounded by his laptop, a crumb-littered plate that used to have a mountain of brownies on it, and three empty pints of Ben and Jerry's — one more than Misha asked him to choke down.

A smile flashes across Misha's face, just briefly, before his bad mood reminds him that it exists, but still… The sight of Jensen is a happy one.

Oh, thank God, at least ONE thing is going right today. Even if that one thing just has to be the one thing that most leaves Misha wishing that he could put his head through a brick wall without ending up in the ER, getting another lecture from Handsome Nurse Sebastian about how terrible concussions are this, and Misha really should see a therapist if beating his head against things is such a compulsion for him that, and blah blah blah, isn't he supposed to be some kind of genius.

And Misha can't sit through that. Not again. The last thing he needs to add to his life is assault charges, or a probation he could violate, or anything like that.

But at least Jensen's doing very well, the past two weeks of progress spell themselves out all over his body, and Misha can take comfort in that, he guesses. Still stuffed from breakfast and his ice cream, Jensen's belly sticks out into his lap a bit, strains against an old t-shirt that he probably outgrew back in July… It rides up on him by a great deal, more than it would under normal conditions, when he hasn't just spent the morning bingeing… Despite the wide strip of skin the shirt leaves exposed, Jensen could get away with wearing it outside the house, if he wanted. He probably has, or it wouldn't surprise Misha if he had.

He's bigger, visibly. Not quite as big as he wants to be, not yet, but he's been working hard, sticking to the plan Misha drew up for them, even when he complains about how much Misha expects him to eat… But Jensen was up fifteen pounds as of yesterday morning. His waist's up to thirty-nine-and-a-half inches, when his stomach's not so packed that it looks inflated. Most everywhere else on him looks the same… Same jiggling thighs, same extra weight in his ass, same double chin that, when coupled with his innocent, boyish smile or the deer-in-the-headlights look he's giving Misha now, looks like it could just be puppy fat… This won't last.

Misha won't _let it_ last. He doesn't care if Jared's the only one who gets to enjoy Jensen's body; he can still appreciate the view, and there's no way he'll let Jensen be all gut and no substance.

Without being able to read Misha's mind, Jensen's playing right into his hands — not that Misha can really claim any credit here… or act like as much of a mad scientist supervillain as he thinks he's acting… The whole thing was Jensen's idea and, well. Misha's mostly just enabling him. But either way, Jensen's unwittingly playing along with what he doesn't know Misha wants. Dribbles of the ice cream cling to his stubble, another pint of B&J in his hot little hands (one of which is, technically, caressing his spoon). He got through the two pints of Chunky Monkey and one of Cherry Garcia, and now he's working his way through one of Phish Food.

Which Misha had kind of had his eye on, but… thank God Jensen's eating it for him… Misha can feel his softening middle jostle around as he adjusts his armful of plastic bags… Without compromising their work on Jensen's weight gain, Misha's been trying his best to diet — he's even sworn to Jensen that he won't go too crazy with it and that he won't let his weight go under one-sixty. He swore it on his ancient copy of the collected Sherlock Holmes — the hardcover one that he's underlined to shit, and highlighted, and margin-scribbled all over, and duct-taped at least twice to keep the spine together.

And for all he's not keeping close tabs on anybody's weight but Jensen's, Misha _knows_ he hasn't made any progress. His jeans keep getting tighter, his stomach gets pudgier, Misha's certain that he'll wake up any day now and be the size of a house… Maybe he's exaggerating somewhat, the way that Jensen accuses him of doing, but considering their irreconcilable opinions on which weight Misha looks his best at… well. Misha doesn't think he's blowing things out of proportion _that_ much.

And anyway, it doesn't matter. Misha knows it's for the best that _Jensen_ eats that pint of ice cream. His own diet wouldn't be able to handle the setback from the Phish Food — because he knows that he can't just have a little bit. One taste and he'd have to eat the whole thing. Trying to banish these thoughts (and the ones of Richard that sneak into his mind behind them), without any explanation for himself, his outburst, or why Gen and Vicki follow him into the apartment, Misha huffs over to the counter and sets his sights on getting all the groceries put away.

Well. That and thinking aloud at Jensen about the fact that _Jared Padalecki is a dead man_ : "No, seriously, I'm going to poison him… I'm going to bake him some rat poison brownies. Then, I'll put those brownies in a box and ship it off to Oxford, and if he doesn't eat them, then I'll just go over there and bash his brains in with a hammer… Did you know that Danneel heard from Jared that I compulsively fatten people up and then dump them? Because that's sort of how she heard it—"

"That's not what she said at _all_ , Drama Queen," Gen points out. Misha turns from his work and gives her a glare — if they could communicate via telepathy, he'd be screaming at her, _I don't care if the moose is your cousin, you're supposed to be on MY SIDE, bitch_. She shrugs and carries on: "Jen, what Danny _really_ said was that she heard from Jared that Misha has the same kink as you and he do — the one that involves Misha's famous, patented milkshakes."

"They are neither famous _nor_ patented, and they're never going to be. It's bad enough that all my exes know, my best friend knows, Vicki knows, Tall Mark knows, and Jared knows — the last thing I need is anybody else _knowing about this_. Okay?" Maybe, he thinks as he puts the snacks up into their proper cupboard, Misha's being a little too bitchy. Snapping too much at everyone. Succumbing to some animal urge to collapse in hysterics… but, hey, it's keeping him from collapsing into a stressed out heap, or throwing the girls out, just to reclaim his personal space from two people he loves, but who just… sometimes don't entirely understand that he requires a certain amount of control over things.

Or who understand and think that they're giving him some kind of exposure therapy and that they're trying to help him, in their own way. He can never really be too sure with them.

And Jensen sounds like he's trying to whisper it, but Misha still hears him say: "Oh, god, he's on this again?"

"Yeah…" Gen sighs, and Misha looks over his shoulder in enough time to see her patting Jensen's shoulder. "Sorry… kind of our bad… there was a sort of… well. Apparently, a lot of people individually decided that today was, 'grill Misha about this project thing the two of you are working on' day—"

"Including your _sister_ ," Misha snaps, and waves the box of granola bars by way of letting them know that yes, he's still here and he can hear them talking. "Dude… how the fuck does _Mackenzie_ know about my… kinky things? She can't even pronounce my name right! She calls me _Miz-sha_ , like she's just… being intentionally infuriating."

"She's a youngest child," Jensen points out, arching an eyebrow at Misha and feeding himself a huge spoonful of ice cream. "She probably _is_ being intentionally infuriating."

"Well… she still shouldn't know about my fucking kinky things." On this point, Misha refuses to compromise. He refuses to compromise so much that he possibly puts too much force behind shoving the granola bars in between the box of Easy-Mac and a bag of cheddar Chex Mix. …or at least that his refusal to compromise distracts him until the box crunches under his hand. "And she knows about it because your enormous, loudmouth boyfriend told Danneel. And Danneel went and told Mackenzie. And… I mean, I'm probably not even going to smack him or anything, but… I'm definitely _considering_ poisoning him… Maybe just enough to make him puke, since this has been about… the worst day for my anxiety, I don't know how I haven't upchucked yet, and…"

Misha trails off as he realizes something… _off_ about the set-up in the kitchen and the people surrounding him.

Vicki's ferreting around in the fridge — she dropped off the ice cream cake, just left it on the table and went to putting the milk and eggs away. She's muttering to herself about how two stupid boys shouldn't need thirty eggs… shows how much she knows. Eggs don't last long here, what with Jensen eating to gain and Misha constantly baking so as to enable Jensen's gain… So Vicki's all normal.

Gen and Jensen are both all normal, too: she dumped her bags on the counter, which Misha at least agreed she could do, since… hey, she drove him home. They make a pretty pair, what with him sitting there and blissfully munching on his ice cream, and with her standing behind Jensen, leaning over and smirking at his laptop, letting her muffin-top hang over her white plastic belt and standing at just the right angle for Misha to get an eyeful of her cleavage… Everything's in order.

 

Except that someone's laughing. Someone… not any of them. Someone who sounds like they're on Jensen's laptop, but is too sporadic-sounding to be any kind of YouTube video, or movie, or whatever. As he shambles over to Gen's side, Mish can't help rolling his eyes — because, really, if they're going to interrupt his attempts at getting everything cleaned up, then they least Misha thinks they could do is tell him what's going on — and furrows his brow when he looks down at the screen and sees Jared grinning and waving up at him from inside a Skype window.

"The fuck are you doing here?" he says before he can think better of it.

Jared snickers. "Good to see you too, skinny."

Misha shivers at the nickname, blushes, instinctively tugs on the bottom of his sweater even though Genevieve had a point in calling it too big on him. _The fucking **point** of it is that it's too big on him_ , he muses as he takes a couple breaths, just trying to calm himself down… "Sorry, Jay, I didn't — it's not that it's not good to see you. And that you haven't gone and gotten yourself crippled on a beach just to play Professor X better—"

"Well, I hadn't been thinking about that, but… Jeeeeennyyyyyy? Can I borrow Misha and have him be my Erik and—"

" _No_ , you frickin' spaz," Jensen huffs, trying to be all indignant when he's clearly blushing, barely covering a round of giggles at his boyfriend's antics. "What'd we say about trying to get yourself shot in the spine _just so you can be like Charles_?"

Faux-aggrieved, Jared sighs. "That it's stupid and pointless and I'll probably get myself killed." He rattles that explanation off without even thinking about it, and doesn't miss a beat: "Now, where were we — oh, right, King Misha the Never-Apologizing was saying something to me… what were you saying to me, Meesh? Huuuuh?"

If that shit-eating grin were on anyone but Jared, Misha might seriously consider punching them in the mouth. "I'm sorry I kind of snapped at you… And y'know, it really is good to see you, I just… Stressful week. Not a really good day so far. And wasn't your Internet access supposed to be, like… on the fritz or something?"

The explanation that Jared gives for this involves some nice neighbor who isn't on the university's ISP, so she doesn't have the same bogus restrictions that Jared does, and because he said something really nice about her homemade meat-pie, she decided to let Jared and his flatmates borrow her wireless, and a bunch of technical-sounding nonsense that Misha's perfectly fine with chalking up to magic.

"Dude, though," Jensen says, staring up at Misha like he's from another planet, "your sister and Gen talk you into buying an ice cream cake and it's a _not a really good day_? Just… First Office Spock, where is the fucking logic in this statement."

Misha blinks down at Jensen and, really, he doesn't even want to dignify that with an answer.

Jesus Christ, he knows he acts like a spastic, Doctor Horrible wannabe sometimes, but… it's like no one's even listening to him today.

Except Danneel, who isn't here to appreciate the fact that she's currently Misha's favorite person in the universe, for the sheer fact that she isn't being some degree of douchebag to him.

Which, as the logical part of his mind reminds him, he probably deserves, at least a little bit. On _some_ level, even if it's all hidden and sequestered and forgettable, like the place in the mall that no one remembers because the only shit there is a knock-off Pretzel Time, some closed-down storefronts, a broken pinball machine, and the map that tells you everywhere else you could be wasting time right now.

It's not like the DeForrest Kelley zombie is the only thing wrong Misha's ever done, he supposes. If the universe's reasons for dicking with him don't involve the rap sheet of crimes against nature and poking around in Things That Mankind Was Not Meant To Know, then it's probably thinking about the more interpersonally offensive things he's done.

Things like pitching Jared's favorite, kind of pricey, cherry-flavored lube and matching condoms because, after one taste of the butter, Misha knew that there'd been dick in it… Which, mutual kink or not, makes him want to barf… there's foodplay and then there's putting your cock in the _thing of butter that other people eat out of_ because you're too lazy or too screwed in the head to just go get the KY out of the fucking bedroom.

Though, really, Misha doesn't think that one counts. He totally paid to replace Jared's shit and Jared doesn't put his dick in the butter anymore, so everybody wins.

But there are other things on his rather impressive list of dick moves. Things like leaving an electromagnet on one of Matt's computers because, apparently, Matt thought it was okay to break up via text message.

And things like telling Vicki's prom date that she was allergic to pollen and wanted fake flowers for her corsage, so, when he understandably didn't trust Mish's intel, he came to the door with a bouquet _and_ what had to be the biggest, gaudiest corsage down in the shop… and Vicki started tearing up, and having sneezing fits, and absolutely refused to discuss the possibility of taking a Benadryl and going anyway. Which served the bastard right for trying to make Misha write his term paper. And treating Vicki like some kind of disposable, bimbette fuck-toy.

…Mostly the talking down to her part, and the telling all his equally bastard bros how he was going to _totally hit that on prom night_ and _make the Mathlete Queen get that stick out of her ass_ part, and _talking about Misha's sister like she was a disposable, bimbette fuck-toy_ part. …Mostly. …At least Vicki eventually forgave him for going the long way around sticking up for her.

And then there are the more overtly bad things — the ones like stealing Katherine's lipstick out of her purse and graffiting a sexually explicit caricature of her on the ladies' room bathroom mirror at Java Hut… Which he only even remotely got away with because Sera, Kat's manager, had: a. seen Misha dumping the contents of his hip-flask into his coffee.

And b. correctly assumed that Misha had been Russian-ing up his Cafe Americano, any modicum of good sense lost in the immediate haze of post-break-up depression-rage and the uglier side-effects of being stuck in the weird mental place where he couldn't even look at Kat without replaying the epic, screaming fight they'd had on the quad, where she'd called him all sorts of shit like _manipulative_ and _emotionally unavailable_ and _the biggest, sleaziest, most self-righteous, lying, terrified, overcompensating dick-weasel I've ever met_.

And c. as some remnant of a class project they'd done together, Jensen's number. Which Sera then dialed. And once she got off the phone with him, she sat down at Misha's favorite table, told him not to come back for a couple weeks, _Just… wait until you and Kat can talk to each other without it turning into World War Three in here, sweetie, okay?_ , and held his hand until Jensen came to take him home.

Not to mention the fact that socially acceptable behavior and being nice to people aren't usually counted amongst Misha's _talents_ … Now that he thinks about it, Katherine was probably pulling punches in their break-up fight. She could've called him a whole lot worse and still been right on the money.

Basically, if the universe needs reasons to screw Misha over, it needs look no further than shit that's had him on Santa's naughty list since he was fucking five and decided that no, Mom didn't need her expensive Rolex anymore — she was getting on Vicki's case for caring more about LEGOs than for making friends, and getting on Misha's case for his baby-OCD, and getting on Dad's case for some inscrutable adult reason… so, really, the watch looked so much nicer in the garbage disposal.

_Basically_ , the universe is probably considering the shit that Misha knows he's just trying not to think about because remembering how much of a dick he can be sort of throws a monkey-wrench in his _pity for poor me_ act. Pretty thoroughly invalidates Jensen's default rationalization — his whole speech of, "Okay, maybe you go a little overboard sometimes, and yeah, yeah, whatever, your heart's locked up in a magic box somewhere and you sold your soul for concert tickets, I know the spiel… but you're still human, Meesh, and you've secretly got part of your heart buried down in there, because there's no other way you'd cry like a baby during Ally Sheedy's big, gut-wrencher scene in _The Breakfast Club_ , okay?"

All of which just makes Misha feel totally pathetic for silently declaring Danneel his favorite due to her relative lack of douchey behavior, even though he's only been whining to himself about his bullshit problems.

 

Jensen arches his eyebrows at Misha and repeats the question — demands to know how Misha gets off calling any day that features surprise ice cream cake a _bad day_ — and maybe he's trying to let Misha know that he's gone too quiet for a bit too long, that the silence is getting awkward and that, if they're going to work, then conversations need more than one person…

But Misha just licks his lips. Can't put his finger on the right word. Wishes that Danneel didn't have plans with James and Mike, her and Vicki's housemates, because as Misha's current favorite and the least douchey person in his world, she gets the honor of being the person he wants to curl up and play Mario Party with until the alternately self-destructive or other-people-destructive impulses go away.

Technically — says the stupid part of his brain, the one that was in hibernation until that stupid, stupid, over-emotional crap that flared up in the freezer aisle — _technically_ , Richard isn't being a douchebag to Misha either, by virtue of not being here.

And right as Misha thinks he's about to scream, cry, bite Jensen's head off, or set something on fire — Jared comes and saves the day: "Wait, wait, whoa — what the fuck is this about an ice cream cake? You fuckers have an ice cream cake and you weren't going to _share it_?"

"You're in _England_ , smart-ass," Gen points out with a snicker. "What're we supposed to do — shove the cake at the webcam while you make 'omnomnom' noises or something?"

Misha sees a devious glint in Jared's eyes, one that he'd probably be afraid of if it weren't, well… _Jared_ , who is possibly the closest a human being can be to a puppy without getting genetic engineering involved. What Misha doesn't do, though, is hang around to appreciate his up-close view of that Tricksy Jared Look. He just makes a beeline for the counter and tries to lose himself in shoving the rest of the foor into its proper place, trying not to think about Richard and trying harder to ignore the nagging-est thought he's gotten all day, _Oh my God, Mom's going to kill me._

That's how he knows today is driving him out of his mind: Misha hasn't even spoken to Mom in maybe eight, nine days. There's no freaking reason for her to kill him. …Maybe he should call her later. Just to make sure she continues not to find a reason to hunt him down and play Medea with her only son, but… Misha sighs. Barely fights off the urge to start beating his head against the snack cabinet's door.

He can't even begin to think about calling Mom until this whole, stupid cake issue's been resolved, because he knows that Jared getting involved means there's no way he can get out of having at _least_ one piece. Gen and Vicki haven't even started heckling about him about how skinny they think he is and Misha knows he's going to have to choke down some of that _fucking stupid cake_.

He sighs. Stares at his neatly ordered stacks of junk food — at the crumpled granola bar box he's even managed to make look semi-presentable — and, in a weird way (even by his admittedly fucked up standards), feels his heart sink and his stomach growl when he doesn't find the magical solution to his problems lost among the ingredient lists that are full up of chemicals he can't pronounce. Hoping that no one pays attention to him or the way he's trying to channel everything he knows about proper yoga breathing into _not having a massive fucking tantrum_ , Misha tells himself that no. Really. He'll be fine.

Even if they gang up on him like a rampaging horde of Uruk-Hai and force the whole damn cake on him, he will be _fine_.

He'll be fine because he can still hide in his sweaters, and because the weather's finally getting right and he can wear them without dying of heat-stroke, and because starting tomorrow, he's going to leave Jensen some breakfast and skip out to the gym and stay there until he wants to collapse. And Mom doesn't really want to kill him, and he'll call home tomorrow so she won't fly out from Boston and hunt him down, and Vicki might take issue with him doing that… but Misha's fine. He is. He'll stay that way. He might not believe it right now, but so help him, he is _going to get this through his own head_ and he'll do it without giving up, calling Shepp, and giving him a plate of brownies in exchange for some half-baked, "as a former psychology major, I am certified to listen to your problems and say _hmmm_ "-class analysis.

Everything's going to be _fucking fine_ — and if it's not, then Misha will just… cry, probably. And then make Jensen sit on everything, rebuild the broken pieces, and rinse-lather-repeat the process until everything is for reals _fucking fine_.

And if that doesn't work, then he'll throw the laptop out the window, kick Gen andVicki out, get hammered while watching _But I'm A Cheerleader_ and pretending he has no idea what Graham and Meghan are feeling and seeing it work out for them when he can't catch a damn break doesn't fucking hurt, and maybe just miss Jensen's shoes when he pukes. Totally on accident, because Misha will definitely be _aiming_ for Jensen's shoes and his unconscious desire not to be a total douche-wad to his best friend will take over instead.

You know. Whatever works.

 

The way Jared decides for them to share the cake is by having a party, which is exactly what they do. Vicki pulls down the paper plates left over from Jared's going away party. Gen upsets all of Misha's perfectly arranged groceries so they can have treats that aren't just the cake. Jensen whines about how Misha just _doesn't understand_ the pleasure of popping the button off a pair of jeans and, once Jared, Gen, and Vicki out-vote him, Misha relents. Stops fussing over making Jensen comfortable and tells him to go wriggle into some jeans and put on a show for everyone.

Mostly, he thinks he does it to shut up the crowing chorus of _God, Misha, seriously?_ 's and _Why do you hate having fun, Misha? Huh? Whyyyy?_ 's — Sure, it's not as bad as having everybody else tell him how he feels about his body, or his weight, or anything, but they are totally not allowed to act like he's the bad guy for wanting to keep Jensen comfortable. Wanting to keep his _promise_ to his _friend_.

The decision to make a game out of breaking Jensen's jeans is met with thunderous a — not to mention the whooping and cheering that greets Jensen's triumphant return (in five minutes and a pair of pants so tight on him, they look like Misha's and Vicki expresses concern over some apparently imminent danger of Jensen murdering his circulation). Because he's Jensen, and he's brilliant, he doesn't even miss a beat before flopping into his chair and digging into the biggest piece of cake that Vicki sliced and divvied up.

And because he's _Jensen_ , and he's _brilliant_ , he must get this… supernatural sense that something's not right with Misha, because he throws his arm around Misha's shoulder, crows something or other about _this guy_ and _I put him through so much crap and he sticks it out because he really believes in the power of love_ — and, met with another round of approval and applause, plants a wet, sloppy, entirely platonic kiss on Misha's cheek.

One that leaves Misha scraping bits of cake off his face with some heinously pink, Strawberry Shortcake napkin.

One that, like pretty much everything else has done today, makes Misha want to upchuck so violently that the past two weeks' worth of food end up in the sink… but that calms him down, too, because… out of nowhere, he finds himself staring at Jensen's dorkiest, sweetest, most boyish smile, and even if he knows he can't do anything, Misha just gets that feeling… that brief, warm, head-over-heels, fourteen-year-old virgin drawing gel-pen hearts around her crush's yearbook picture feeling.

That feeling like maybe everything's not completely full of shit and, hey, maybe Misha's right when he tells himself that, sooner or later, it'll all be okay.

 

So, a party happens — the thought's out there and, really, Misha can't see four dorks and a Jared-on-skype as a party, but… everyone's sold on calling it that and he guesses that he can see how the term works in this situation. They do party things, albeit with less insanity than Misha expects out of anything that purports to be a shindig. They eat. They drink. They carry on — and for all he didn't plan on dealing with a party, Misha can't deny that the camaraderie feels nice. Letting himself get swept up in the enthusiasm of it all… feels _good_.

He doesn't think about his belly, or his supposed diet, or Mom, or the fact that Jensen shoves a pint of Mint Chocolate Chunk into Misha's hands by way of apologizing for eating his Phish Food, or the fact that Misha gets so dumbstruck and _happy_ that he doesn't realize he's eating it until his spoon hits the bottom of the carton and comes up with only one tiny little partial piece of chocolate… Intellectually, he's aware of all these things, but they don't really _register_. They don't even claw at the back of Misha's mind. They just sort of lurk.

Having Gen over for the first time in months... That also feels nice. And Misha doesn't even care that he sounds all pining and stupid and clingy and when he tells her to please, please never disappear into Canada for months at a time ever again — "Especially not with _Katie_ , Genny. She's cute and kinda nice, I guess, but she's always giving me this stink-eye like she really believes all the death threats and the shit I say when I'm just blowing smoke, you know?"

And, despite the fact that they have a mutually agreed upon moratorium on flirting or doing anything remotely sexy with each other over tables full of food, Gen doesn't even get snappy with him when she catches his eyes lingering on her a bit too long, indecisively wandering between her tits and her perfect, pouty little mouth. She just asks if he's enjoying the show and fake-moans with the over-the-top intensity of a horrid skin-flick, sucking the cake off her fork until she's giving Misha her best Derek Zoolander face.

"You look like you got a black hole implanted in your cheeks..." Misha says through the fit of laughter that follows.

"Yeah, and Jensen eats like he has a black hole in his stomach, Vicki reads like she has a specifically knowledge-absorbing black hole in her brain, and you like telling freshmen that you have a black hole for a heart." Gen smirks at him, gives him another round of egregious porno moaning-cum-Blue Steel eating. And through a mouthful of cake, she says, "Maybe we should start a club."

"Hey, what about meeeee?" Down in Jensen's Skype window, Jared whines. And pouts. And pulls out his signature Kicked Puppy Face as if to inform them all that hey, look, listen, he's sitting here with ice cream too, and just because he's really in England doesn't mean they can just ignore him or anything. "Jeeeeennyyyyyy," he keens up at his boyfriend. "Tell my cousin to stop being so totally meeeeeean to me. She's ignoring me and you should make her stop…"

"Well, you must have a black hole in your _lungs_ ," Misha suggests dryly. "Not to mention the superpowers to spew all the air you inhale…"

He thinks he's being mean. He expects Jared to throw a fit and ask Jensen why his best friend has to be such a bitch. Instead, Jared smiles and announces to the room that Misha is his new favorite, even if he's probably going to abuse that status to do Jared in with brownies — "Which, like… belatedly, Meesh? If you're going to kill me? Can you pretty, pretty please do it like that? Because there are only two things I'd want for dinner if I were on death row, and they're Jensen's cum and your brownies. So… just make sure I get one last BJ before you feed me your rat poisoned deliciousness and I will go to my grave still calling you my favorite."

Genevieve glares at the screen, sneering and arching her eyebrow. "Oh my _God_ , Jay," she play-whines. "You are _so. gross_ — how are we even related? Don't you have _any respect_ for how people are, like, trying to _eat_ here?"

"Well, you tried to talk to me about… clitorises and stuff over dessert last Thanksgiving and I _still_ can't look at pumpkin pie without thinking about them, so I'd say we're even."

"Would you stop being so stereotypical for twenty seconds, though? Since when does being gay mean you have to hate lady-parts—"

"Gen, that's kind of like, the whole point of being gay—"

"Yeah, but _you're_ being stereotypical about it, dork-munch — other gay guys can appreciate lesbians! _Jensen_ appreciates lesbians—"

"Good for other gay guys! I think lesbians are fine, but… I don't want to _do them_ and they don't _turn me on_ because I think that boobs, and oral sex on vaginas, and anything else that's sexy and attached to ladies are _gross_ —"

"Jensen's getting boobs. Are you gonna dump him when he needs to borrow my bra?"

"Jensen's boobs are _different_ , Genevieve, _duh_. His boobs are, like, a million times hotter than your boobs."

" _Jared Tristan Padalecki, stop even implying that we are kissing cousins_! I will _kill you_!"

"How was that implying anything, jerk? Even if we were into that, I still wouldn't want to kiss you because you're a _girl_!"

"You're missing the part where I'm going to _kill you_! I'll come over to fucking England and I'll kill you in the _face_!"

"Well, Misha's not gonna let you kill me because he already called dibs!"

The two of them carry on like that for a while, bickering at each other; Jensen and Vicki laugh their asses off, while Misha just… scoots his chair over a few inches, edges away from the screen, so Jared can't see him, and so Jared can't see the fact that he probably looks like crap, and so Jared go about being _Jared_ over it.

Which is to say: so Jared can't notice that Misha's slouching and avoiding eye-contact. Trying to curl in on himself and doing so without any sense of subtlety or trying to hide. Staring at his paper plate like it's got the secret to life, the universe, and everything written on it instead of a picture of Batman. Alternately shoving his slice of cake around the plate, so it looks like he's been eating it, and letting his gaze dart around, making sure that no one's watching before forking chunks of it into his mouth at a rapid-fire pace, swallowing it so fast he can't even appreciate the taste.

Misha scuttles out of his loud, enormous BFF-in-law so Jared can't see any of this, then go and make a fuss out of what he didn't notice.

Because Jared's perceptive. And he's _nice_. And he wants to help people; he gets some inexplicable rush out of helping people and being diabetes-inducingly sweet to them. Maybe everyone else is caught up in the Great Padalecki Cousin Bitch-Off, or the cake, or other such distracting things, but given too much time and ability to see Misha on the screen, Jared would notice that he doesn't look quite right. And if Jared notices that anything seems off-color, then Misha's screwed. S-C-R-E-W-E-D — completely, totally _fucked_.

Because Jared's _loud_ , and Jared's _nice_ , and he'll ask what's _wrong_ , and Jensen will get _concerned_ , and then Gen and Vicki will dump _another goddamn slice of cake_ on Misha's plate, and they'll keep their eyes on him until he eats it, never mind that he's had fucking _five_ already and Jensen's only ahead of him by two because Jensen's purposefully eating like a vacuum cleaner…

Or worse: Jared will notice, and he'll ask what's wrong, and Jensen will get concerned, and they'll all hold hands, and hug, and sing, "Kumbaya" or, "Miss Suzy Had A Steamboat," and once they're done making him want to puke, they'll corner him and make Misha talk about his _feelings_ , like admitting them is going to fix _anything_.

 

Misha has to make a break for it — running's a dick-tastic, cowardly move. He knows that. And he doesn't want to run. Well. He wants to run, but he doesn't, and he definitely doesn't want to _want_ an escape as much as he does… Everyone's having a good time, so making a mad dash for the bathroom, muttering a nigh-inaudible _Be right back_ on his way there, not intending to come out again… It probably seems, like, mentally unstable.

Like… really, _really_ , ridiculously mentally unstable.

And not mentally unstable in his usual way — not like, _shit, cock, fuck, oh dicks, Jensen, get your shoes on, Misha's all fucked up on stress and he's probably bullshitting me, but he says he drank bleach…_

Definitely not like, _oh my god, you guys, Misha's doing his spot-on Orson Welles impersonation again; — oh, shit, would you look at that? Misha knocked himself into the pool — that's so batshit nutty, it's so Misha Collins_ …

It's not mentally unstable in, like, his frenetic way that makes parties interesting, and means that (for all they're a bunch of functionally brain-dead borderline-illiterates who can't write anything that's not in text-speak) his section of Dr. Singer's freshmen pay attention during lecture, and unexplainably endears people to him, sometimes.

It's just the kind of mentally unstable that scares people off, even the people that you call your friends. Because they can look at it and they know that whoever's exhibiting these traits is a walking human mess and probably more trouble than they're worth.

Like Misha's the fucking Derek Zoolander of issues that no one in their right mind would put up with from anybody.

But how this behavior seems to others just… isn't important anymore, once Misha hears the bathroom door slam shut behind him, once he fumbles with the lock and knows no one's getting in unless he lets them… He's safe. Mostly, anyway. In this nice, cozy privacy, he can get whatever this is out of his system and go back to seeming mostly normal. Or… well. Not as though he's teetering dangerously close to some perfect storm of God only knows what.

He sighs, splutters a bit because taking in the air he needs for the sigh feels alien to him, for a moment, and the freedom to do so is a relief, sure, but… It hurts, too. The way that pent up stress always hurts when it gets released. His lungs ache, leave him heaving for breath and unsure if he's going to end up puking or not. He feels like someone went, turned him into a fish, and turned him back, before he could get used to the goddamn gills but not before he'd noticed they were there.

Like he needs to teach his lungs how to cooperate and do their job all over again.

Thinking too hard about this sends Misha's head reeling. He feels his face flush hot, his eyes start welling up with something wet — but he doesn't cry. Not yet. His knees wobble underneath him, and he sinks to the floor, and he has to fight through the sharp, twisting feeling in his chest, force a few deep, shuddering breaths, before his vision stops trying to go blurry on him… Jesus God, he hates these anxious fits of his.

Twenty-three years with them wandering in and out whenever they please means he's _used_ to them, not that he has to be okay with the fact that they won't go away.

The thought kicks around in the back of his mind — the thought of how his latest flare-up of crazy must seem to his friends, his sister. And how it's basically a big neon sign above his head that's flashing _HEY, EVERYBODY, SOMETHING'S WRONG. LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME_. And how, if anyone even spotted it, then they might well be plotting to drag him out of here, kicking and screaming, and to make Jensen sit on him until he _talks about how he's feeling_.

And Misha really would choose drinking bleach over that if he didn't know that doing something so fucked up and stupid as chugging Clorox would mean that, on the off-chance he didn't _fucking die_ , he'd just end up talking about his feelings at the hospital and probably spending a few days as the honored guest of their friendly neighborhood hospital psych ward, to boot.

And Misha just really, _really_ doesn't have the time to sit around and get his head shrunk by anyone who isn't Shepp. Sure, Shepp's a bastard sometimes, and there's the weird problem of still occasionally wanting to fuck him through the mattress, but he doesn't sugar-coat things or yank Misha's chain around with happy, peppy, nauseating feel-good speeches about how, no, no, actually Misha, jerking off is not what they meant when they said self-love.

Which is possibly an indication that maybe he could stand to start listening to everyone who's ever told him that, no. Really. Some emotional honesty isn't going to kill him. Which is probably the stupidest thing Misha thinks he's ever considered, if only because it's too simple to actually work.


	7. All Or Nothing At All.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Saturday's emotional whiplash continues, denial ain't just a river in Egypt, and Jensen still deserves a merit badge for awesomeness.

He doesn't keep track of the time, down on the floor. He only half-listens to sounds from the kitchen — and judging by the applause that splits his ears even when he's not up close to it, Misha's willing to guess that Jensen finally accomplished busting his pants. And Jared's probably super turned on, which he's no doubt announcing to everyone. And Gen and Vicki are probably making sure Jensen gets his belly-rubs, and Jensen probably needs them because… well, he's been eating pretty much straight through, since ten-thirty, Misha thinks. Something like that.

And Misha's place is _probably_ where Gen and Vicki are — giving Jensen his victory belly-rubs… But the thought of moving right now makes his head throb. Dull, ponderous, thumping, unrelenting, like his brain's just knocking around and trying to get out. And coffee would help with that, but coffee would mean moving. Coffee would be going out to the kitchen and being around _people_. And coffee has _calories_ — not a lot, sure, but Misha doesn't even have a good sense of how bad the _problem's_ getting and how hard fixing it's going to be…

Misha glares at the scale. He'd glare at himself, if the mirror weren't a few feet above his head. Because, in the same vague, nagging way that he knew Jensen had shoved ice cream at him and that Gen and Vicki kept dumping cake in his direction, Misha knows that there's something that, if not outright _wrong_ , is at least _not very good_ about the way he's feeling.

For one thing, he shouldn't get any kind of excited about the prospect of having a moment alone with the scale, one that's not being shared with Jensen or coming as Misha's just stumbled through a shower and running to avoid being late. He doesn't want to get up and move so he can go sulk in bed, or whine at Jensen to make him coffee, so he shouldn't want to be springing into action over something that he _knows_ is just going to upset him.

For another thing, he's obsessing. He _knows_ that he's obsessing. And, if for no other reason than having promised Jensen that he wouldn't, Misha doesn't want to obsess. He doesn't want to let Jensen down. Not when he seemed so… invested in making sure Misha wouldn't go overboard with this.

But Misha also doesn't want to keep being _oblivious_.

Trembling, Misha stands up. Throws off his sweater. Drops his jeans into a heap on the floor. He pauses to regard his reflection and, from the closest he can get to an objective perspective, he guesses that he can see the point everyone's been belaboring: he _feels_ pudgy, but he doesn't _look_ it. In just his t-shirt and boxers, he looks… predominantly unchanged by the past two weeks. His face is still thin. So are his arms, his legs… When he moves _just so_ , his shirt nuzzles up against the sharp angles of his shoulder blades, but finding the right pose takes work. For the most part, there's still more room in it than Misha really wants to think there is.

He's not looking all that changed by summer, either, and for all he doesn't want to admit it — admitting it means admitting that maybe, his rationalizations don't hold water; and that maybe, he's even more full of crap than he realizes; and that maybe, he has Capital-I _Issues_ , more than he's realized, or that Shepp and Jensen and Jared have realized for him; and that maybe, most of what he's thought has been going on has been in his head the whole time…

No. No, that's ridiculous and Misha can't, _won't_ , admit it. Admitting anything is dangerous, like picking the wrong Jenga block. It could send his whole, delicately constructed image crashing down.

But he can't deny that, really? He doesn't look all that different than he did in May. And, as Jensen's refused to let him forget, he really didn't look so good in May… Thin enough to get Mom cooing about it. Pale. Dark, sleepless circles under his eyes that could just as easily have been from getting punched in the face. …And now, well. He's slept more, which shows. Still pale, though that's not going to really change. He could've sat in the sun until September and all he would've been able to do was spend a week looking like a lobster and then he'd've gone right back to being pale. The only thing that his weight gain's changed is that the angles of his face aren't _quite_ so pronounced… Not quite so frail and two steps away from passing out.

Lifting his shirt up is a different story, and Misha has to bite his lip, swallow down the urge to recoil in horror.

Still, he can admit: it isn't bad — not bad at _all_ , let alone so bad as Misha's been telling himself it is. Soft, sure. Protruding a bit, yes. Kind of plush, a little curvy, definitely squishy. He can get his fingers on a roll of fat that's barely even worth noticing… It only gets his attention by not being perfectly flat. By being further from that than he was when everyone but Mom apparently wanted to knock him out, toss him into bed for a few hours, and make him eat a bacon cheeseburger — and when all he could think was that he was _so close_ to one-fifty, that he had his waist whittled down to some obscenely tiny number and could still find what was pretty sure constituted flab.

In retrospect, he's more willing to think that it was probably just skin. In the mirror, he doesn't look nearly so awful as he's been thinking… He looks like what he _is_ : a thin, somewhat awkward dork who just hasn't hit the gym in a bit. And in the back of his mind, Misha thinks that okay… okay, he can do this, and maybe it won't be so bad.

But then he sees the red, digital numbers flash _172_ at him. The scale's tinny, mocking voice confirms it. And everything falls apart: Misha's face flushes hot; tears start dripping out his eyes and nothing stops them; he stumbles back, flops toward the counter, hops up and takes a seat to the right of the sink… And he curls his legs up until they're almost pressed into his chest. Drops his forehead to his knees and keeps right on crying. He tries to remember that it's not so bad. Tries to think about anything but how _huge_ that number makes him feel.

Mostly, he ends up thinking that Mom is going to kill him, and that really doesn't help at all.

 

" _Misha!_ "

He almost has a heart attack at that. He definitely has no idea how long he's spent doing a whole lot of nothing. The sound of Jensen banging calling his name gets Misha springing up — he almost falls off his seat on the counter. And the noise of his flailing just makes Jensen knock again.

"Meesh, come on… What's going on in there?"

Misha groans. And sniffles. And knocks his head back against the wall, its ugly patterned paper, telling himself not to keep Jen waiting for an answer. "I'm _fine_ , Jensen… I just… I — maybe I ate a bit too much, I think? And I sorta thought I was going to puke. But I haven't yet, I'm just still a little nauseated… Kind of staying in here to make sure it's all okay. You just… go back and enjoy the rest of the cake, okay? I'm fine…" He gets a bone-dry _really_ out of Jensen, and without thinking, insists, "Yes. _Really_."

"Well, considering you locked the fucking door and I can _hear_ that you've been crying… Misha, I'm sorry, but I have got to call bullshit on that, 'oh, I'm fine, you can go now,' malarkey."

There are only three words for the feeling running through Misha's entire being right now, and they're simple ones: _fuck. my. life._ He briefly considers saying so, but Jensen goes and starts saying things again: "Okay, so… there are two ways that this can go down, Meesh: either you take a minute. Breathe. Unlock the door and _let_ me in, and we can talk nice and civil. Or I can pick the lock, or break the door down, or _whatever_ , and I can drag you out of there… And then the talking probably won't be so civil."

He wants to be pissed off at Jensen… call this some atrocious breach of privacy or some other insult that'll get Jensen pissed off at him back… but instead, Misha feels his heart get all crush-fluttery. He can't even begin to fathom what would make his heart _do that_ — _oh, wow, he's invading my privacy and no one else is because he can tell when I'm full of crap, and they don't, and he just knows me so much better than everyone else…_ Jesus Christ, it's like he's possessed by an insane fourteen-year-old girl.

Jensen bangs on the door again, announces that he's going to count to ten and go with the breaking in plan if Misha doesn't say something already — and all he manages to force out is, "does. …The talking part's happening no matter what I do, isn't it?"

" _Noooo_ , Misha," Jensen deadpans. "You only ran out in the middle of seeming to have fun with the rest of us, and locked yourself in the bathroom for forty minutes, _crying_ , and tried to tell me that there isn't something going on with you. Of course the talking part's going to happen, dick, now are we doing it the nice way or not."

"…okay. Okay, I'll admit: my behavior sounds really unbalanced when you put it that way."

"Huh. I'm… totally and absolutely shocked by that revelation, Meesh. You wanna hear how it looks from where I'm standing."

"Not really." Misha slides his feet along the counter, stretches his legs a little but mostly digs the edge into the arch of his foot. Staring intently at the floor, he mutters, "Are the girls with you?"

Jensen sighs, but at least his voice is softer when he says that no, Gen and Vicki aren't with him — he wouldn't do that to Misha — they and Jared are catching up on theatre department things or something… And he starts rambling, just a little, but Misha tunes it out so he can focus on the lock. On undoing it with his toes. Jensen probably doesn't even notice the tumblers turning; he only shuts up when Misha kicks the door.

Once Jensen's in, his first move is to shut the door again. Then, to shove Misha's legs out of the way. He's out of his jeans again, but Misha can't stop and appreciate the view.

Misha doesn't even get a moment to think before finding himself wrapped up in Jensen's warm, strong arms, pressed against his chest… and his brain starts whining at him to fight it, put up a fuss and push Jensen away… but Misha can't. He lets himself collapse into the hug, knots his hands up in Jensen's shirt… He doesn't want to get crying, not again, but… Biting on his lip doesn't help. Yanking Jensen closer to him doesn't help, though it does send both of them knocking into the wall. Burying his face in Jensen's neck helps… Helps a little.

But not for long: one shudder, one moment of thinking he's out of the woods, and Misha chokes out a soft, strangled whimper. He licks his teeth, bites his tongue, feels his throat tightening up on him out of nowhere… Hates how tiny and lost and pathetic the next thing out of his mouth sounds: "I just… I didn't mean that, and I… what kind of feedee _are you_ , Ackles? You gave up fucking ice cream cake for _this_?"

Jensen squeezes him so hard, Misha thinks his eyes might pop out of his skull. "Of course I did, you _utter. fucking. moron_ ," he sighs, rubbing at a tense spot on Misha's back. Huffing disappointedly at the whining sound that this gets him. "We can get another fucking cake if I don't get enough. I can't just wander down to the store and buy a new Misha, capiche?"

Misha's not even sure what he says to that — he's pretty sure he mumbles something about statistics, and parallel universes, and theoretical physics… And that's when the dam breaks. He clings harder to Jensen, crying until his eyes burn from being way too dry and he's choking back snot. He tries to explain himself, tries to at least say that this doesn't usually happen to him because, usually, he's so much more controlled… but Jensen just growls at him to shut the fuck up and holds Misha until he's done making an overemotional ass out of himself.

When they finally pull apart, all Misha can think, and all he says, is, "Jesus, your shirt looks like… I just. …it looks like my nose threw up on you."

Jensen chuckles. Musses Misha's hair and gives him a smile. Leads him out to the sofa and sits him down — Gen and Vicki, thankfully, don't even look up from the laptop and based on how it sounds, Jared's giving them an in-depth account of some round of Angry Birds that he played recently. Jensen doesn't pay them any mind, just nestles in behind Misha and starts going at the (numerous, deep-set) spots of tension in his neck, his back, his shoulders. Which hurts. One of his gasps gets Jensen to ask if he's okay, and Misha supposes that he stored more stress up in there than he realized.

But, even with the initial pangs he gets, Jensen gets relief out of this efforts. Makes Misha feel good. He works Misha's muscles over mostly with his thumbs, at first — then, he moves onto using his knuckles — for all Misha can still picture that ugly, unholy little _172_ flashing up at him, he manages to remind himself that Jensen keeps having to maneuver around the bones of his shoulder-blades, so _clearly_ , he is wrong, everybody else is right, and he's what Jensen would call a stick-insect. Possibly, he's more than a bit out of his goddamn Vulcan mind.

 

And he's definitely not expecting, after several minutes of mostly unbroken silence, for Jensen to finally drop the bomb on him, in a low, soft voice: "So… that talking thing. You wanna make this easy on both of us and just tell me what's going on, or do I need to push you?"

Misha sighs, rolls one of his shoulders under Jensen's hand — and can't help checking to make sure the girls and Jared aren't eavesdropping. Thankfully, they're not. They've moved on to Gen regaling them with some anecdote about her summer adventures in Canada.

With a shake of his head, Misha says, "I don't even really know… It's sort of everything and nothing."

"How very specific. Do go on."

"Jensen, shut your mother-fucking mouth or I will cut your goddamn brake-lines."

"Well, you're swearing, threatening, and berating me again… That's a good sign. You know I get worried when you go more than half-an-hour without saying something that should probably get you arrested."

"You know, if you wanted to see me in handcuffs so much, all you had to to was _ask_ , you kinky bastard."

"See! And we've moved onto not-even-vaguely sexual propositions… So is this getting to be any less of the worst day ever, yet?"

Misha scoffs. Rolls his eyes. And he knows Jensen's just… being Jensen, which is to say an enormous fucking dork. That threat wasn't nearly creative enough to be his normal state of being, and the bondage joke came out completely limp… An untrained eye would probably just think Misha's tired, but Jensen knows. Jensen _has_ to know, because even Misha can admit it: he's throwing out the same defense mechanisms that he always does, but because something's _wrong_ , his heart just isn't in it.

Jensen finds a really tight knot around Misha's spine — it's so hard that, at first, both of them think it's a vertebra. But it starts untying as he focuses on it. Relief charges in after the pain, getting Misha's back to feel properly limber and relaxed for the first time in he doesn't even want to think about how long.

He sighs. "This is so not my worst day ever, Jen," he says. "Never was. Maybe if I'd, like, smashed a thing of Prego on Tall Mark's head, sent him to the ER, and gotten arrested, yeah, it'd be in the running, but… y'know, otherwise."

"So… today's just so stressful that you end up snot-vomiting on my shoulder, it's not even in the _running_ for worst day ever, and… you just don't see a problem with that?"

"Of course I do. I just don't see what there really is to _do_ about it." Figuring this needs some explanation, he rattles off his laundry list of Issues With Life: the whole bullshit at the supermarket (but not the part where Richard was suddenly relevant again); the totally cavalier way that Shepp and Mark just up and invaded his personal space; how Gen and Vicki didn't even _try_ to understand that sometimes, when he says he doesn't want cake, they shouldn't fucking push him; his section of Freshman Comp is still populated completely by morons; he keeps thinking his mom is going to kill him and he knows there's not a reason for it…

Misha leaves out certain complaints. Like the one where, if he weren't _exhausted_ , this back-rub would make him want to crawl in a hole and die because it's just one more way in which Jensen is the nicest person he's ever liked, and the whole crush thing is pointless because of how _in love_ Jensen and Jared are. And like the one where Misha actually has a few ideas regarding why his mom might kill him — and like the one where, if she doesn't, then Vicki's going to do it because she thinks that Misha calls home too often. He can't go into that tonight. Or possibly ever… preferably ever. It's too messy, too complicated, too futile to worry over.

And he wants to leave out the one about his weight, but… there's no way around it, at this point. Jensen would just push him, if he tried to leave it out… so, he confesses. Mentions the seven pounds he's picked up, and how he knows he's being stupid and obsessive… "But, I don't know, Jen. I try not to be, and then something always happens, and sure, I'm not getting _worryingly_ scrawny or fat all over again, but…" He glances back at the table and sighs. "See? I keep doing shit like this… like it's going to be some amazing revelation to my sister, one of my only exes who actually still talks to me, and Jared that I'm kind of maybe a little bit neurotic… Okay, maybe _very_ neurotic—"

"Or maybe you care too much about what people think of you," Jensen says, digging his thumbs into a spot he's already worked over twice. "And not enough about what _you_ think of you… which isn't really news to me because I'm a genius."

Misha rolls his eyes, but the smirk he's wearing is still an affectionate one. "Or maybe because I actually trust you and you know how to read me like a book… Sometimes a book that's upside-down and written in Klingonese, but still. You. Me. Book. And throw a verb and some connections in there so it'll make sense."

"Your explanation's a lot less fun… though, you know. If you really loved me, you could tell me _why_ you trust me and put my shattered ego back together."

"Because you're pretty," Misha tells him easily. This time, when he looks back over his shoulder, he meets Jensen's eyes and pulls a face at him. "I trust you because all I see when I look at you is your external beauty, and because I'm a shallow, shallow, terrible human being, I'm just using you for your gorgeous, sexy body."

Jensen laughs and smacks him on the shoulder, announcing that Misha's _such a fucking dick sometimes_ — and finally, Gen and Vicki pay attention. And they're quiet. Sympathetic. Not necessarily as though they're trying to apologize for anything, but… at least Misha gets the sense that they know things aren't alright and that their hands are a little dirtied up in it. They ask if Misha's okay and the thought of having to answer that makes his head start rushing and his body feel weak again…

But Jensen tightens a hand on his shoulder to shut him up.

And Jensen looks back at the girls, tells them, "Yeah, he's fine… Ate a little too much, too fast. He threw up, but… he'll be okay. If one of you two could bring him some water, though? That'd be perfect."

And regardless of whether or not this lasts, of whether or not the universe is just throwing Misha a bone so it can make him miserable tomorrow… he relaxes more under Jensen's hands. Stays that way when Vicki brings him the drink. Smiles to himself and tries to focus on enjoying this moment, rather than pondering how they got here.


	8. In Just Seven Days (And Six Long Nights).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen and Jared have some quality time on skype and experiment with New Things. This is not a plot-heavy chapter. Character-heavy, but not plot-heavy.

Whoever Jared's Internet-access-fixing neighbor in his student flat is, Jensen might have to kiss them. He might even make an exception to his "no kissing girls unless it's platonic or intoxicated spin-the-bottle is involved" rule for it. Thing is, the first while of Jared's jaunt across the pond was unbearable, only getting emails here or there because the university only gave him so much time online, or so much bandwidth, or some other technical shit that Jensen doesn't really understand.

But ever since the Good Samaritan neighbor wandered in and fixed things, it's been amazing — getting to silently watch Jared be a dork when he purposefully calls during one of Jensen's classes; getting to cyber in more effective ways than IMing a bunch of hackneyed, misspelled pick-up lines at each other; just getting to see Jared's big, dimply smile because he knows when Jensen's working, but he just wanted to call to say _I love you_ before he went to bed…

On the other hand, though, it means Jensen gets to see Jared's face _now_ , following a confession that he's been sitting on for four weeks too long: Jay's scrunching up his nose and his forehead; one of his eyes squints at Jensen while the other looks like it's trying to bulge out of his skull; and Jensen _knows_ that Jared doesn't mean to sneer, that's just one of the looks he gets when he's confused, but… this fact doesn't really help Jensen feel better about the _Look_ he's getting. He only manages to keep his eyes on Jared due to pure force of will. Down in Jensen's lap, where Jared can't see, he's letting his fingers fuss with the strained hem of his t-shirt, brush against his belly like clinging to a security blanket.

And, to top it all off, Jared _stammers_ as he says, "wah— wait, wait, what, I… the connection must be, like, getting freaky on me or something, I didn't really hear — I mean… you want me to _what_ , exactly?"

Flushing bright pink, Jensen ducks his head — oh, God, Jared thinks he's like a freak or something, shit shit Christ fuck fuckeddy fuck fuck fuck. It was lucky enough that they both like Jensen's body best when he's chunky — of course Jensen was pushing it too far in mentioning his recent string of super-graphic wet dreams, how he wants to hear Jared telling him all sorts of humiliating things, calling him names and groping him all over… God, why would he even _think_ about pushing their kink in this direction.

"Never mind," he mumbles, stroking his belly again and jostling one of his rolls of fat. "it's nothing, pretend I didn't say anything — hey, how's the weather over there? Is it as wet as they say, like raining all the time and—"

"N-n-no, no no no, noooo, Jenny!" Jared whines, drawing Jensen's attention back up to the screen, where his expression's softened. His big hazel eyes are in full on Sad Puppy Mode and, when it's coupled with how his hair's hanging in his face, Jared's too cute to resist. Jensen kind of wants to resist — or, at least, he wants to play a little bit harder to get… but there's no way he can just Jared throws him that look.

Especially not when Jared scratches at the back of his neck in that awkward-but-adorable way of his and adds, "I'm sorry, Jen... I kind of. I didn't react well... Sensitively enough or the right way or anything like that. But like... did I hear you right? Can we just, like… start again and have you go over everything again for me? …What do you want me to do?"

Jensen's blush manages to subside a little bit… Not much, he can tell from how warm his cheeks still feel, and from the awkward desire he gets to reach up and push a pair of glasses up his nose… which would be much more reasonable, were he actually wearing his glasses. He takes a deep breath. Sighs. Tries to feel less fluttery, less like he's going to have an anxiety-induced heart attack all over Skype just for trying to admit this… He sighs again and runs a hand back through his hair.

"It's… it's sort of like what we've done that's like, BDSM-y-kind-of-flavored?" he suggests, figuring that's about as good a place as any to start. Yeah… yeah… frame the new prospective activity in terms of something that he and Jared already like doing, give it context like that… that's good. "And… it'd be more in the roleplaying kind of vein of that, instead of in, like, the handcuffs, and submissive-while-feeding, and me giving you orders veins? So, like, it'd be getting more into the 'scene' aspect of things, and playing around with roles… which I guess I sort of already said when I said _roleplaying_ , but… it'd be like, it's not really us? It's us-as-other-characters, doing stuff that turns each other on, so we're kind of us, but also not-us because we do and say things that we wouldn't _really_ do or say, we're more getting off on the fantasy?"

Jensen groans and rubs at the bridge of his nose like he's got a headache coming on. He doesn't, but even so… he's babbling. He's probably not making any sense at all, so now his boyfriend knows he's a freak and probably thinks he's going crazy on top of that. _Great_. "You with me so far?" Jensen says.

Maybe, when Jensen glances down at Jared again, he looks too hopeful ( _desperate_ , says the irritating, self-conscious voice in the back of his head). It's not that Jared seems _uneasy_ — on the contrary, he's leaning forward in his seat, nodding enthusiastically… He might well be getting off just on the fact that Jensen's being so honest and open with him… But, whatever the wonky, lopsided grin he's wearing is supposed to be, at least Jared doesn't look like he's judging Jensen for this. And he keeps nodding, confirms that yeah, they're on the same page, he thinks…

"And don't think you're getting out of telling me the rest just because of that panty-melting smile, tubby," Jared teases, sticking out his tongue and smirking like the Devil himself. "Iiiii heard other stuff in there before… or, y'know, I remember hearing it and need it cleared up for me and Iiiii want to do so many bad things with you… as long as I know what the bad things we're doing are. And stuff. And I'll take, 'Things that go in Jensen's ass' for a thousand, Alex."

" _Jesus Christ_ ," Jensen says, barely managing to get it out through the deep-in-the-belly-laugh that follows Jared starting to hum the _Jeopardy!_ theme song. " _You are such a fucking spaz_ , Jay — focusing, remember! Don't you have early class tomorrow?"

"Noooo," Jared whines. "Noooo… what the Hell kind of college student am I, baby? Class on Fridays? Are you kidding?"

"Yeah, well, Misha and I _teach_ on Fridays, you enormous dork—"

"You're in _graaaaad school_ , that doesn't _cooooount_ …"

"Yeah, I'll remember that when you have to work long hours in a lab, doing all kinds of research that you'll hate for some guy who's gonna call you _Erik_ or _Aaron_ or some other name that _isn't Jared_ because, hey, he's Doctor So-and-So and you're just a grad student, he doesn't have to like you."

Jared pouts. "Jeff said a lot of cooler things about grad school…"

Jensen shrugs. "Yeah, well, Jeff—"

"If you say, 'says dogs can't look up,' I swear to God, I'm telling Misha to take your Simon Pegg  and Nick Frost DVDs away until Halloween is over."

And even though they're so far off-course that Jensen probably couldn't find their way back with a map, he gets all warm in his chest at that — not just at the way Jared's laughing, and beaming ear-to-ear, and making everything in the world feel so completely _right_ ; but also at the way that Jared just _knows_ he's been bingeing on _Shaun of the Dead_ every night to get ready for Halloween… This time, when Jensen blushes, it's with a giggle. And a smile. And he lets his hands drop into his lap again, fusses with the hem of his shirt like he's standing against the wall at a dance, waiting for Jared to ask him for a slow-dance to "Kiss Me" or, "In Your Eyes" or, "Just The Way You Are" …Something lovey-dovey and ridiculous like that.

"So, what about us focusing on me putting stuff in your ass?" Jared says, smiling, letting his eyes go wide, getting that incorrigible puppy look he always gets, even when he doesn't mean to do it… "Because, I gotta say, baby? You're filling out in all the right places and… if your ass is getting as nice as your belly is…" He wolf-whistles and, for a hot second, Jensen thinks that Jared's just going to stop everything and drool himself to death — but he snaps back to reality and concludes: "I just miss fuuuuuuucking yoooooou. And getting fucked by you. And seeeex."

"Which is why we should _focus_ on what I'm proposing, yeah, right?" Jensen can't help laughing — and that makes him want to punch his computer. For giving him a way to talk to Jared, but for not being the complete, real thing… for not being able to hook him up with Jared's huge, rough hands… But at least Jay nods, and Jensen goes on, just dropping the bomb: "I want you to humiliate me."

Jared's only reaction is: "…huh."

Just a fish-eyed, gaping mouth stare and the mutter of, "… _huh_."

And regardless of what's really on his boyfriend's mind, Jensen gets to rambling: "I mean… Like I said, Jay, it wouldn't be for real or anything? It's just play, and… I don't even know why I've been thinking these things, but…" His face is _burning. the. fuck. up._ And he can't make eye-contact with the screen, but he just keeps talking: "I keep thinking it'd be, like, really hot for us to, like… play out a scene like that. Just… getting out of our heads for a while, and you can be some character I want to see, and I'll do something you want, and we just don't have to be Jensen and Jared for a while, you know?"

Jared wrinkles his nose, going from adorable puppy to adorable bunny in a flash. "…why do we want to not be Jensen and Jared for a while?"

"It's not like we _really_ stop being us, though?" Jensen tries to cover his ass, now, throwing out the explanations as they come to him, without entirely thinking about them or making the words make sense. "We're still us, because it's all about doing things that turn _us_ on, but… it's like playing pretend, but it's sexy. You know? It's not just about not being us? It's about the freedom to like, play at pushing boundaries we wouldn't feel comfortable pushing as ourselves so we can like… experiment."

"And… one of the things you want me to do is… humiliate you?"

Jensen blushes. Nods. Squirms a little in his seat. "I mean, we already kind of went there a little bit with the handcuffed feeding sessions, but… not, like, intentionally? But… God, it's hot when you play all dominant and controlling, though I'm not saying I don't like the way we can give and take, and switch it up, and balance each other out and stuff, because I love that? …But, like, it'd be super-cool if we could play more with it… and you'd like, pick on me? And give me orders? And… things of other kind of dominant natures?"

"Jenny…" Jared's voice, all of a sudden, goes soft and gentle, and were they physically together, Jensen's certain that Jared would be hugging him from behind, with his long arms draped around Jensen's shoulders and his taut abs pressing up into Jensen's back. "…Is this — if this is because you're trying to cope with your dick-head boss picking on you again? Then… I love you, but we can find some other kind of kinky sex games, right? Ones that don't, like, totally violate your self-esteem?"

Jensen finds himself squirming again, and this time, it's because Jared's somehow gotten his lips to do the closest approximation that Jensen's ever seen on a human face of the different 'skeptical' or 'uneasy' emoticons.

"Jay, it's not like that, I swear…" (Though, maybe it's like that. Jensen's not sat down and thought about it — he's been rather more concerned with Misha, and and his and Misha's project, and how much weight he's gaining, and his section of freshmen in Intro Art Techniques… There are more important things to think about, Jensen figures, than why, exactly he wants to do certain things in bed or not. …Or on Skype, as the case presently is.)

He sighs and shakes his head, just hopes that he can make some sense out of this: "It's like… yes, I have those insecurities, sure, but… it's not the same. I mean, when you, or Misha, or Dani, or Gen, or Vicki tease me about getting fat? It's cool. I can even dig it with Lauren and Alona, because they're friends, and it's always affectionate and not judgmental… but then other people do it and it _is_ judgmental, or hurtful, or something… This whole idea is like. …It's basically like a roller-coaster?"

Jared blinks. And frowns, ever so slightly. And completes the transformation from giant-puppy-man-child-Sasquatch-moose to puzzled-looking owl. "A roller-coaster with sex?" he deadpans.

"Well, when you're back _here_ , then yes, obviously… but until then, it's long-distance getting each other off through… roleplay and stuff."

"Roleplay, and stuff, and _roller-coasters_?"

"Not for- _real_ roller-coasters, dingbat," Jensen scoffs, and affectionately rolls his eyes. "It's like… the whole appeal of roller-coasters is that you get to play with the adrenaline rush and do things that scare you, but you're belted in, and they test that stuff to within an inch of its life, so it's all safe. …That's basically all I want to play with here. Emotions, and feelings, and getting them to run high, and having it be all… playing with stuff. Things that feel _dangerous_ and wrong, but they're really not, because they're safe?"

Alright, so Jensen's not going to win any Nobel Prizes for public speaking anytime soon. Or educating people about kinky shit. Neither of which is actually a Nobel Prize, he knows, but dammit, they should be, just so his fat, inarticulate ass can be barred from ever receiving one, _EVER_. He could totally stumble into some Nobel Prize victory for, like, literature or something, but he's just outright screwed, never, ever going to get one for oratory or kink education. …But, even so, Jensen got his point across (he hopes), which is what matters more than anything.

Well. It's what matters more than _one_ thing, namely: Jared's reaction to the explanation and the concept outlined within it.

And Jared's immediate reaction is to go quiet. Get one of his expressions that indicates being Deep In Thought.

Which Jensen can't really fault him for. Going from, "oh god, I hate this one dude in my one class" to, "babe, I want you call me names and sexually demean me, but just for fun, okay?" happened sort of quickly… and, in retrospect, Jensen probably could've handled the transition better.

There's something weird about how Jared pauses, though, and the contemplative look he gets… For one thing, it's _hilarious_ , watching him go _hmmm_ and nod and narrow his eyes as though he's trying to see right through to Jensen's soul. Jared looks like he's constipated — and Jensen tells him so — which sets both of them off laughing. Gets Jared to announce that Jensen's such a dick, when he puts his mind to being so — "Good thing you're cute, though, Jenny. It totally balances out those moments when you break out the kitty-claws."

Jensen gets to smirk now, and having the upper-hand is ever so delicious. "You weren't complaining about that when I sent you over there with the scratches on your back, sexy."

"So what kind of character were you thinking about for me?" Jared pauses again, and when he gets Jensen's eye-contact back, he's smiling — not the biggest, dorkiest puppy smile that he could manage, sure, and yeah, he looks a tad apprehensive, but… eagerly so. Like he isn't sure what's going on, but wants to find some way, any way, to make the best oh it — and there's the spark in his eyes like he's going to suggest doing something awesome, but insane. Something like shopping cart races and pretending to work at pet stores, then convincing people that a box full of toy tribbles actually has real pets inside.

"I mean…" Jared says with a shrug. "I can do pretty much anything as long as your character involves you getting naked, yeah? …Not right away, because it's awesomer when you make me work on it, but like, eventually? Pleeeease? I can beg, if you want, Jensen Teaser-pants Ackles."

Despite himself, Jensen blushes and mumbles that it's really more like _Jensen Tight-pants Ackles_ , these days. Jared just groans something that sounds like _oh my fucking GOD, yes!_ … and the change-over comes before Jensen can really appreciate the strip of skin that's revealed when Jared leans back to stretch: Overly Excited Little Kid Jared disappears into Deep In Thought Jared. And Jensen ries to keep up his leering, but, as it turns out, it's a lot harder when he's trying not to bust out laughing at Jared's current pensive face. Which looks more like he's pretending to be Derek Zoolander than the expression of a guy who's thinking over kinky games to play with his boyfriend.

Not to mention his use of the word _awesomer_ — if anybody else did that, Jensen would rip them a new one for violating the English language… but it just sounds so _sweet_ and _innocent_ and _perfectly fine_ on Jared's lips.

…But that's entirely not the point. Their characters are the point, and, for their sake, Jensen pulls through, shrugs and tries to play this idea off as nonchalant when it sure as shit doesn't feel that way, and, by some miracle, manages to explain: "Well, I was just thinking that if you said, 'yes,' I could… I could be, like, the quarterback who got injured and started putting on weight while out of commission, and you could be the hard-ass-but-secretly-tender assistant coach who's conflicted because he wants his star back, but on the other hand, the new look really turns him on?"

Jared goes quiet for a second, giving Jensen the same dreamy, far-away smile he used to get before Jensen finally asked him out, when he hung around the campus gallery, pretending he wasn't ogling Jensen while he was on the job. "I love it when you get all… _Scrubs_ Elliot up in your roleplay ideas, babe," he says with a pleasant sigh. "So… can I volunteer an idea for how we should start, maybe?" — Jensen nods, and Jared beams. "Okay, okay, so… you go get The Stash. And eat, just… whatever you want. And I'll come in like I called you down to the office and I was running late or you just got there first… sound good?"

Jensen agrees that it sounds good — but before he can get any other words in edgewise, Jared mutters, _cool, be right back, babe_ — and vaguely, Jensen wonders if he's just going to pee or make sure that the door's closed or something.

…But, then, Jared's not even in the webcam's path for a solid minute-and-a-half. A sour feeling settles into Jensen's stomach, churns like he's gone and eaten something disagreeable — _oh, fucking Hell… is this part of the scene or is he just… dammit, Jared! Can't you tell me more about our plans before just going on with them_ — but Jared said he was okay with this, and…

Out of nowhere, Jensen's phone buzzes with a text from Misha, tapped out in his insistently perfect grammar, despite it being a damn text: _Jared just sent me an email off his phone. I have no idea what the fuck you two are doing, but he says he's trying to build up tension and you should eat. Which I second on principle. Also, Vicki and I are going out to eavesdrop on Gen and Dani's date. Behave yourself. Eat. Eat. Then eat more. Be back later._

For a moment, he thinks that he ought to point out that sneaking around on one's ex's new date isn't exactly the best use of Misha's time, but… Jensen only ends up sighing and supposing that it's really not his business. And at least Vicki's going to be there to keep Misha out of trouble while Jensen's only in the mood to deal with his own relationship. _His_ business, likewise, is limited to Jared. And to The Stash. And to eating…

As much as his gut groans about this sudden need to move, Jensen perseveres. Rubs it as though trying to soothe some savage beast — _might as well be…_ he muses, _it's getting big enough at least…_ And he trudges over to his bedside. Returns to his seat with The Stash, some Kleenex, and his bottle of lotion — _no sense in wasting the lube when we can't actually do each other. That fancy shit's expensive._ He glances down at the Skype window and, when Jared's still not back from wherever he fucked off to, Jensen tears into the evening's first bar of chocolate.

He goes for one of the snazzy ones in the purple wrappers, first — they're something called a _Dairy Milk_. Jared sent a bunch over in some care package of delicious British sweets that Jensen got last week, and the first bite reminds Jensen that… okay, maybe he's never heard of the things, and maybe he only knows Cadbury as the folks that make the chocolate-and-creme-filling eggs Mom likes to get for Easter, but _oh God, sweet Jesus fucking fuck fuck fuck, oh GOD_ … The chocolate's sweet, for one thing. Sweeter than Jensen expects, even after eating one-a-day since he got the lot of them.

Sweet enough that the old sensitive spot flares up — right between two of Jensen's molars, where there's never been a cavity, but where he inexplicably can't get anything too hot, too cold, too sweet, or too much of anything. The pain shocks down the nerves, makes his entire mouth ache — he groans, and wonders if some reasonable person would just stop eating the Dairy Milk over shit like this… They probably would, yeah.

But Jensen's hardly a reasonable person about this; he's a growing boy, after all, and the calories are worth the pain.

Even if he _weren't_ gaining, the way the chocolate melts on his tongue, swishes around his mouth— viscous, sure, but… _so, so good_ — and the way it gets trapped on the roof of his mouth, the way it tastes when he has to tongue square after square of it off his teeth… _God_ , he could be on Danneel's crazy diet again and he'd get over how badly eating this stuff is cheating. Just because it's _so perfect_.

Jensen devours the bar slowly, piece-by-piece, dragging it out not just for himself, but for Jared… If he's even watching. Or if he's recording their session to get off to again later. Or whatever Jared might do. Once Jensen's got the first bar done, though, he starts eating faster… Appreciating everything is all well and good, but… well, on the one hand, Jensen's nerves are already pricked up, wondering where Jared's wandered off to, and whether he's really so okay with this, and when he'll be back… Nervousness makes not eating too easy, so Jensen overcompensates instead. Any time he feels his stomach start whining, Jensen reaches for the food.

On the other, Jared isn't the only one who's going to be acting. Jensen's got a character to get into for this, as well. And his character is cocky. Overly sure of himself. Probably hasn't even noticed that he's getting fat — and, even if he had, he isn't the sort to sweat over calories or giving food its proper deference.

_He could probably chug one of Misha's milkshakes without realizing just how much artistry Meesh puts into those_ , Jensen thinks. He tears through two more bars of the Dairy Milk, three of his s'mores-flavored granola bars, and finally, starts digging into his bag of ruffled chips… just to get the sticky, sweet taste out of his mouth, so he can talk… He crams two handfuls down before he hears the distant sound of a door slamming.

The thunder of footsteps getting nearer and nearer to the laptop…

And, suddenly — _Oh, sweet zombie Jesus, sitting in on Gen's acting lessons paid the fuck off…_

Jared doesn't flop into his seat and he doesn't beam back into the webcam — He's so far into character that barely even looks like Jared anymore, and the cold, hard glare he gives sends a shiver of excitement racing up Jensen's spine. Already, he wants to get defiant. Start pushing whatever boundaries Jared can think to set up… But there's no sense in acting out before they have this session's baseline for what is or isn't allowed, and under what circumstances — so Jensen leans back in his chair, rather than sitting on the edge of it, like he wants to do… _Arrogant son of a bitch quarterback_ , he reminds himself and repeats it like a mantra as he watches Jared brood. Lick his lips and teeth. _Sigh_ so hot that it might be steam rising off of him.

"Bet you're wondering why I asked you to come meet me here today, Jensen," he says in a voice Jensen's seriously never heard from him before… He even wracks his brain, trying to remember if Jared's ever let his voice go so… _smooth_. Freezing cold, and a little snide, and _smooth_ — smoother than the two squares of the dark chocolate Dairy Milk that Jensen pops into his mouth with a shrug.

"I dunno," he lies, smirking. "I guess maybe you wanted to let me have this season's MVP spot? I mean… nobody else got hurt out on the field like I did."

"Not even close — though, you're correct in guessing that your injury's involved." Jared pauses here, and sighs again — and this one seems more pensive, though still every bit as heated as the last one. Rolling his eyes, grating his teeth on his lip, Jared scoots his chair closer to the desk — he leans in toward the laptop and folds his hands on the desk. "Athletics is not something that can afford for any screw-ups, Jensen. In football, especially, you need to always be on top of your game — everyone needs to be on top of his game because, if one person isn't, then the whole team suffers for it… Now, I'm going to be blunt with you, and I'm not even the least bit sorry for it because it's something that you _need to hear_ —"

"Thanks for that pep-talk, Coach," Jensen snickers, mid-chew of another square of chocolate. "But I already know that I'm the best of all those dicks out there—"

"Don't you mean that you _were_ the best?" Jared's interjection comes so quickly that Jensen startles… stops chewing and stares at the Skype window… still can't find anything to say for himself when Jared runs a hand back through his long hair and pushes it off his face. "That was rude of me, Jensen. And inappropriate… but, I mean, _come on_. Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"

Jensen's not sure what to say to that — he gapes at Jared for a minute, just trying to fathom how well his boy's getting into this, especially for someone with misgivings about the kink — but… _cocky, arrogant, be a dick_ , Jensen reminds himself, and laughs Jared's remark off. Shrugs to go along with that facade. "Sure, I've seen myself, Coach," he says, and pointedly tugs on the hem of his shirt. It's not riding up that much, not nearly as much as Jensen might like it to be, but… it's about getting into the part. "I've seen that I'm still goddamn gorgeous — I've just been gorgeous on a set of stupid crutches for a while, thank God they're gone, though, am I right."

Jared arches an eyebrow and sneers, "really, Jensen? _Really_? You haven't noticed anything… _new_ about your appearance whatsoever?"

"Nope. …I mean, sure, I'm showing off some more skin these days — my parents went out of town for a week-and-a-half last month and I totally blew it and shrunk the wash. All just my clothes. But getting new stuff's too expensive, so… they have to do, y'know?"

"Oh, I know… I know that my star quarterback's using a legitimate injury — one that he got over _almost two weeks_ ago, might I add? — as an excuse to let himself turn into some kind of big ol' fat-ass."

He's been expecting it, sitting on pins and needles with waiting to hear it… but once Jared finally throws the first insult, Jensen freezes up again. Feels his breath hitch in his throat, half from shock and half from the fact that _Jared needs to get back from Oxford RIGHT THE FUCK NOW_ because two syllables are enough to make Jensen _need_ this in real life. Without a computer screen and thousands of miles between them. It's only by some miracle that Jensen manages to chuckle and assert, "Wow, Coach, I mean… you must need to get your eyes checked or something—"

"I _know_ what I've been _seeing_ , Ackles, and don't you give me that—"

Popping the end of this bar of chocolate into his mouth, Jensen carries on, like he can't even hear Jared: "Because, seriously? I'm a lot of things, sure, but… fat? Fat isn't one of them—"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd love to keep deluding yourself—"

"Would you take one good damn look at me, already?" With an indignant huff, Jensen hops to his feet and pivots slowly enough to let Jared appreciate the view. "Where on this body is there an _ounce_ of fat? I'm an _athlete_ , and I'm _sexy_ , I'm the number one pick for prom king—"

"You'll only be prom king at the fat camp, the way you fucking eat!"

Jensen's hands fall to his hips — he knows that his belly jostles around as he cocks one hip to the side, and he feels his thighs quiver… but just like he can't let himself grope at his love handles, he knows better than to acknowledge these things. Not even just by pausing and wondering what that odd sensation was. His character's oblivious and so Jensen, too, must be oblivious: "I only eat when I'm fucking hungry, Coach!"

"Wow, you must have the Speedy Gonzales of metabolisms, then, because you eat _all. the. damn. time_!"

"I'm a teenager, dude — If I'm putting on weight, or you think I'm eating too much, it's probably just because I'm prepping for a growth spurt or something — because I know one thing's for damn sure here, and it's that _I'm. not. fucking. fat_."

The resolve behind his voice takes Jensen by surprise — he doesn't know where it's coming from, which moment of swallowing a bunch of bitchy comebacks for his coworkers, or Mom's siblings, or random people out in stores is putting this fire under his ass — because it can't just be getting into character. His throat tickles when he swallows — as he sinks back into his chair (eyes locked on Jared's the whole time), Jensen wonders if the neighbors can hear him and if they're having a good laugh about him insisting that he's not fat… And maybe Jared wants to get a word in edgewise, but that thought turns the heat up, makes Jensen's stomach turn, and he just can't keep himself quiet…

"You know what I think this is, Coach Dick-bag?" he snaps (and, again, he surprises himself; he's quieter, sure, but… where is this vitriol even coming from?). "I think this is just… totally all the fuck on you. You're _obsessed_ with me, and you're _obsessed_ with winning States, and you're jealous because you're, like, thirty so you can't just eat whatever you want. And I'm gonna graduate. And you can't fucking take it, and you're… you're trying to play mind-games on me. Stupid. fucking. mind-games. And they're not gonna work."

By way of concluding that speech — and letting Jared know that he can have a turn — Jensen smacks his palms on the table and huffs, "You just want to fuck with my head so I'll screw up in class and fail the year and you'll get to have me playing quarterback on your _stupid football team_ again."

Jared wrinkles his nose. Curls his lips into an icicle smirk. Folds his hands together again, just for a moment, and soon decides that he prefers to tap his fingers together. "Is that so?" he snickers, and it sounds like something's over-boiling, like Jared's just waiting to pull out a switchblade. Another chuckle, and it's somehow colder… As it slips past Jared's lips, Jensen feels it course down his spine, then feels something drop into his stomach and start twisting up his insides… Powering through the _need-desire-fucking-want-need-need-need_ to kiss him now, telling Jared, _yeah, that's so_ takes every ounce of nerve that Jensen has.

And once he's done that, Jared laughs — full-on, chillingly laughs. "Ackles, you must've put on about fifty pounds in your _head_ ," he quips, his tone whip-crack-sharp. "Right now, you're in jeopardy of even _staying on_ this team, much less as the quarterback — you're barely even qualified to play the fucking water-boy. Not with your inflated. oversized. porcine. swollen. corpulent. fleshy. _sagging. fat. ass._ "

Jensen's got to hand it to his boy — he really does — as he reaches for the chips again, starts defiantly cramming them in his mouth, Jensen can't even keep track of how many times his hand falls into the bag, how many servings he goes through. The whole time, his attention's fixed on Jared, on how Jared drags out all the insults — he has to have a thesaurus hanging around somewhere, to be pulling all those out at once, but even if he does… All that really matters is the way they drip off his tongue. The way he takes his time pronouncing the words, with the precision of the _one guy_ who has to determine whether pulling the red wire or the green wire will deactivate a bomb.

And it's all so spine-chillingly careful that Jensen's got nothing to say — no quips, no pithy retorts; just another churn of his stomach (answered with another handful of chips) and the tight feeling of his dick curling up, going hard against his belly.

Jared smirks and it's like his lips turn into a knife's edge. "You really think that your body's stayed the same as always, Jensen?" he drawls —nodding takes effort, but Jensen manages it… All he wants is to tell Jared to shut up and fuck him already, but since that can't happen, and since he trusts his boy, Jensen plays along. Even tries to put on a cocksure grin of his own. Derisively, Jared snorts, makes himself sound like everyone who's ever gotten on Jensen's ass about his weight and how he can't _possibly_ like being so heavy, as though it's not his own fucking choice… " _Strip_ ," Jared snaps.

There's a direct order if Jensen's ever heard one— he doesn't fuss about complying, in part because his character wouldn't and even more because he feels the _oh-god-fuck-want-need-must-have-fuck-fuck-FUCK-ME-NOW_ twist around in his belly, lurch around, all hot and sick… But he _does_ take his time, rising to his feet, slipping out of his t-shirt with a wriggle of his hips that really isn't necessary… It gets his belly to jiggle, as much as it can when it's all taut from a pseudo-stuffing, and just for kicks, Jensen shakes out his head. His shoulders. Makes like he's just limbering up for something, when he wants to feel his plush flesh quivering again.

He drops his hands to his jeans next, maneuvers around his burgeoning muffin-top to pop the button out of its hole. Even so small a gesture takes some of the pressure off his gut… but, as much as it's a _relief_ for him, he can't give it up so easily. He drags the zipper down at an absolutely glacial pace, works out his hips and spine for each click of the teeth coming undone. They're already separated by way too many miles— and they can't plan on when they might have enought time for another sexy session— Jensen might as well make this one count. Even if it makes him a fucking tease. _Yeah,_ he thinks, _like Jared's never been a fucking tease before_.

He gets his fly apart and, even then, he doesn't just let his jeans fall off. They're a pair of the 40-inch-waists that he and Jared bought back before Jay left, and they're already getting tight, leaving rough, red indentations on Jensen's skin… Still, they could probably get themselves off, if Jensen didn't insist on curling up his thumbs in the waistband. On peeling them off _ever-so-fucking-slowly_. On doing so in such a way to make him writhe, make him shake his gut, give Jared a show— and it gets the desired effect: before Jensen's even got the jeans to his mid-thigh, before he's showing off his black boxer-briefs and the bulge of his erect dick, he heard Jared groan as if to tell him that _Jesus fucking Hell, boyfriend, you've got me hard already, how about we move it along_ …

And by way of doing exactly that, once his jeans get to his knees, Jensen lets them take care of themselves. Steps out of them, kicks them aside, smacks his gut and beams. "There, see?" he huffs, over-selling the pride his character's supposed to have, though Jared doesn't seem to notice. "I'm perfectly fine, Coach— still just as hot as ever."

"Oh, really," Jared snickers again. "See that scale over by the wall, Jensen?" There isn't one— keeping the scale phyiscally out of the bedroom is one of their rules, but… since it's just a fantasy, Jensen nods, turns his head in the vague direction of Jared's pointing. "Go get on it. Tell me what its verdict is— that is, if you can still see your feet around that spare tire of yours, you oblivious fucking pig."

Playing pretend starts up for real now, and even if he tries to visualize a scale, picture himself stepping onto it instead of just taking a step toward his desk, Jensen's far too focused on the reality of the scene, on Jared and how he drops character, lets slip some impatient whining. Jensen _sighs_ , feigning exasperation instead of letting himself seem as eager as he feels. He pretends to look down, to peer around his belly and suck it in just enough to see a set of numbers… He lets his face fall. Hesitates. Coughs and finally announces, "two-fifty-four, sir," reporting the figure from his last weigh-in with Misha.

That was two days ago and the shock, though it's just acting right now, was real then. Is still kind of real now. It's been four weeks since they started this project and Jensen knows that he's been dutifully sticking to his Misha-crafted diet, but there's still something so staggering about how much weight he's managed to pack onto his frame in what seems like so little time…

It's probably a bit of a shock to Jared, too — at least, it seems that way, judging from the way he drops character again (which Jensen can't blame him for, not really… he's been a tease, he knows it, and of course Jared's going to react to it as himself, once or twice). How he gapes, and the way his eyes start bugging out, and how his lips quirk up into one of his over-excited smiles… He stammers, this time, when he tries to sound like his hard-ass persona again: "C-c-come a— you want to run that by me _again_ , Ackles?"

"I said: _two-fifty-four_ , sir."

" _Sit_."

That sounds like what Jared's supposed to be acting as: cold again, hard again, and too stern for Jensen to even consider refusing. Not that he would if he weren't taking the submissive role today.

He watches in silence as Jared strips — tells Jensen that _he'll show him what an athlete's body really looks like_ — He rips off his shirt like tearing through paper, doesn't do more than undo the flap and nudge his jeans to get them off — and for a moment, Jensen just wants to appreciate the view, but finds his attempts to do so interrupted.

By something that he can swear shouldn't be on Jared's body. He tilts his head, squints… _Is that a… what the Hell is…_

Maybe it's just the computer playing tricks on his eyes (the pixellation could totally do that, he supposes), or maybe he's just too tired and imagining things… But in the little lull in their action, Jensen can swear that he sees something Jared definitely didn't have six weeks ago… _pudge_. A little bit of a bulge around his middle, one that's so small Jared's shirts apparently still hide it, but that Jensen can make out, now that he's gotten his boy naked.

_Is that pudge, or am I seeing things… I mean, it could be, but… is it?_ —

If it's not just some hallucination, then Jared hasn't put on a lot of weight. Barely any — his middle looks a little softer; his abs are still clearly defined, but seem softer than Jensen remembers (and probably more comfortable to lie down on). Realistically, Jensen supposes that the change is hardly worth writing home about, so he can see why Jared wouldn't have mentioned it, but it's been a while since they've had _them time_ , so Jensen's probably making it out to be more than it is. …It's definitely jiggly-looking. Jared stretches out and Jensen can see his stomach rise, fall, and tremble with each deep breath Jared takes.

But, as Jensen reminds himself… the thing is _small_ — small enough that Jensen could easily be making it up and convincing himself that it's real. Even if he isn't imagining things, it might not even really be that Jared's gaining weight — sure, he's tall and something big would most likely need to happen to change his physique, but it might not be _gaining_. It could just be that he's been focusing on his studies instead of going to the gym enough to compensate for his hearty appetite. At least, enough to compensate enough to keep his abs as taut and shredded, which… well, Jensen would have to smack him if Jared took this opportunity and let it go to waste so he could work out…

The confusion nags at the back of Jensen's mind, but finally, Jared settles back into his seat. Jensen lets the thoughts go. They're little more than a distraction.

"You really don't think you're fat, piggy?" Jared huffs, and Jensen feels that twist of _need-you-to-fuck-me-already-now-please-NOW_ , feels his dick start leaking pre-cum at the mere use of this nickname — the one Jensen's heard his fantasies of Jared hissing at him over and over again, but that he hasn't mentioned to his boy before.

He screws up his courage, his nerve, and nods— somehow, he manages to keep his hands reaching for the chips, instead of reaching for the lotion or his cock — and Jared gives him another arctic laugh. "Really? …Well, touch yourself and I'll tell you what I see when I look at you — touch your body, I mean. Get your hands all over that and _just try_ to tell me you're not an obese cow."

Jensen groans and tries to play it off as an exasperated sigh — and, though he doesn't say it, he's sure as Hell thinking, _Oh, God, you fucking tease…_ Turnabout's fair play, sure, but as he puts a hand on his own flabby midsection, Jensen doesn't know how much longer he can hold out on himself. He rubs his palm up and down his belly's curve — slouches forward, just to make his stomach rolls more prominent — he smirks as he clenches his fingers around one… squishes it between them and shakes it, makes his whole gut quake… He moves his hand around to his side, next.

As much as he wants to go for the lower curve, the place where his skin's most sensitive, they can't just end this prematurely… they might have to wait weeks for their next chance to be together like this… and he gropes one of his love-handles to the sound of Jared moaning. He plays with it hard, grabbing onto it so tightly that he's probably leaving an imprint of his hand, but… _Oh, God…_ — It doesn't last long. Can't last long. Jensen just has to reach for his favorite spot. He strokes both hands along the bottom of his belly, palming at it, squishing it around in his hands—

At least until he can't take it anymore. He puts a dollop of lotion on one hand and wraps it tight around his dick, starts dragging his thumb up and down the sides, kneading his index finger into the underside of his shaft… Hardly a substitute for fucking, but it'll do until February.

And Jared's trying _so hard_ to stay in-character, throwing out a litany of insults, even though he's gasping, and groaning, and one hand's disappeared off the desk, probably to his own cock: _God, Jensen, are you fucking joking? Look at those rolls — fucking jelly-rolls; I bet you even got them from jelly-rolls — how many doughnuts have you started packing away? The team probably doesn't even have 'Husky' uniforms in your size anymore, Jenny — and you can't be Jenny Thunder anymore, not with an ass like that — more like Jenny Thunder-Thighs, am I right? Whatever happened to the star quarterback, anyway? Where'd you run off and hide him, butterball? Huh? Who's a pudgy, fat-ass butterball, Jensen, huh? Is it you? I think it is_ —

" _Jay_!" Jensen whines, twisting his fingers _just so_. "Jared, you fucking lunatic — let me… _please_ …"

"Oh, you wanna cum, piggy?" Jared says — trying not to whine right back. Failing. Letting his cheeks flush red. "What? You wanna _get off_ instead of packing away those chips? Probably some kinda miracle you even know where your dick is—"

Maybe he continues. Maybe he just gives up and cums himself. Jensen can't tell: another flick of the wrist, another hard twist on his shaft, and he groans. Shudders. Feels the sticky residue of his jizz settle onto his hand, his shorts — and by the time he's coming back around into reality, Jared's done talking at him.

Jared's slumped over on his desk, gasping for breath and muttering some incoherent something-or-other about how Jensen's _so fucking hot_ , how he misses him _so fucking much_ … Jensen sighs, because it's the only thing he _can_ do to get as much air as he wants into his lungs, and he blows a kiss to the webcam.

"You are so goddamn amazing, Jay," he whispers. "Just in case you ever start doubting that."

"I might if my character's always such a dick…" Jared manages a breathless laugh and looks back up at Jensen, gives him a tired smile. "But if you were wondering? You're amazing, too… and I'm not just saying that because you're creative, and smart, and funny, and awesome, and, like, the best person I've ever met. I'm totally saying it because I like getting you naked."

"Yeah, well…" Jensen shrugs. Picks out another bar of Dairy Milk from the stash and, without unwrapping it, pretends to lick the thing. "Flattery just gets you everything, doesn't it?"

Jared half-groans, half-laughs, protests that _no, no, no, no, NO, Jensen's not allowed to get him off again so soon, he hasn't even recovered from the other time, Ackles, what the fucking Hell_ — but, even with that said, he gives Jensen a smile. One of their carefree, easy ones that say _I love you_.


	9. Forget Myself, I Want You To Remind Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha has his own moment of PWP, coupled with some reminiscing, some fantasizing, and a blatant preference for character-focus, rather than plot-focus.

_God fucking damn it_ , Misha hisses, fumbling both his dick and his lubed-up plug, which falls to the mattress, tries to roll away, gets residue from the gel all over his sheets.

It's a new toy, made out of rubber that has a nice give, even if it's a shade of purple that kind of nauseates him and that's only tolerable because Misha won't have to look at it for long. It's a replacement for (and, supposedly, an improvement on) his old vibrating plug, which still _works_ , but only as a plug, since Misha can't figure out how to change the batteries.

Grunting, he knocks his head back — and, sure, the pain doesn't help. Mostly, it just reminds him that he has to lubricate the plug again, and that some _quality time_ this is turning out to be when he's not even hard yet… But he gets a little bit of comfort from the action, and from the ensuing need for deep, meditative breaths, for something to get his mind off the pain. He gets his pause. Relocates both his ability to breathe regularly and his resolve to make this plan actualize — it's been one Hell of a week. Misha _needs_ some stress relief.

It's just that he's so goddamn frustrated with the whole, stupid business. Well past the point of it being reasonable… He almost wants to give up on jerking off, go and ask Jensen for a back-rub instead, but… It's Saturday. And he doesn't know if Jensen's up yet. And the whole point here is to get _away_ from thinking about Jensen… if Misha can even manage that, once he finally gets this set-up right. All the time he put into fingering himself open — the contorting's easy enough, he's flexible like that, but getting it right takes a while, takes focus… some side-effect of not getting fucked on a regular basis, of not having anyone but toys up his ass since Matt…

It's not that Misha hates getting himself off — _hardly_. On the other hand, he's been accused of enjoying his masturbation much too much. Not to any sort of problematic level, but… noticeably more than some perceived average amount of fondness for the action. He questions the validity of everyone's purported statistics, but not of the statement that he loves himself, frequently.

If his masturbatory self-love could somehow magically translate into self-esteem — _real_ self-esteem, not overcompensating like he usually does — then Misha would probably have the best life ever. Even when he's been in relationships, he's had a fondness for just kicking back on his bed and regaling himself with some self-love, regardless of whether or not he's had one of his significant others as an audience… He's expanded his repertoire since going to college, since getting out of Mom's house, learning about sex toys, so-called 'deviant practices,' and being able to enjoy them without the fear of discovery…

But, whatever he does, the ultimate effect is the same, is where he finds himself now: back against his headboard, knees curled up to his chest, and Misha working himself over.

Or trying to work himself over, anyway — the _trying to_ part being the major source of his current frustration. He can't even hold the plug responsible for this, not when it cooperates with getting slicked up again and _certainly_ not when he gets it past his hole, biting his lip and grunting as he feels it filling him up… In all due fairness to jerking off, Misha's frustrated with just about everything right now, not just how he's had trouble getting his prep done up right — his students are getting better, but too slowly to make dealing with them worth the effort. Six weeks on and Jensen's getting fatter, just like they planned, which is a mixed blessing, as this means Misha gets to give him belly rubs that go all of nowhere. Not to mention how it's wreaking a side-effect on Misha's own weight.

He hasn't been on a scale since he broke down on Jensen's shoulder, and Misha's been trying to get back on track, but even before he drops a hand to his waist and prods at his developing pudge, Misha knows he's been getting thicker around the middle, himself. He closes his eyes and knocks his head back again, lets slip a whine (something that he can't even deny is a whine). Sliding the vibrating control around in one hand, trying to keep a grip on the translucent pink-ish plastic, Misha reaches down between his legs. Makes sure that the plug's in just right, that it's not going to go sliding out — it's in, it's not coming out, but Misha's dick isn't hard yet and he's not content to leave well enough alone. He presses his fingers into the plug's base, prods at it (sending it deeper into him), wriggles it around (because, sure, it's filling him up, but the thing's only so wide and it tapers off at the end, it can only be in so many places, can only have contact with so many sensitive places in his ass at once)…

Nudging it _just so_ makes it _finally_ find his prostate… Misha gasps so hard, so deep… He actually sucks his belly in and, for a moment, he stares down at it and gets to pretend he hasn't put on weight… But, with a shudder and a groan, he lets the air go. Lets himself sigh, lets his chest fall. Lets his chub flop back into his lap… As he helps himself to some meditative breathing, Misha tries to remind himself that he's being silly. Blowing everything out of proportion — and he smushes his fingers into his pudge, just to remind himself of that — _it's not that big, it's not that big_ , he tries repeating this until he believes it — he may not know how much weight he's put on in the past two weeks, just that he _has_ put it on… All the work he's put into the past few years, into staying skinny while fattening up his exes, into training his waist down… Gone.

Or, if it's not gone, then at least he'll need to get a handle on things soon… There's no way he can go home for the holidays like this or worse, not when Vicki's still a twig like always… Misha slides his free hand around his stomach. Gets it wrapped around one of his burgeoning rolls of flab. Still not as huge as his fucked up, wormy little brain wants him to think it is… And Misha feels his dick (his stupid, stupid, uncooperative dick) twitch as he kneads one thumb into his tummy, brushes the other along the ridges on the switch. He doesn't even turn the vibrator on yet — and he doesn't want to like the way that his stomach feels, not when he knows this hasn't been intentional so much as the side-effect of his shit eating habits… Skipping breakfast, doing his best to avoid lunch, ending up at home for dinner, with Jensen, who always has to go and point out that Misha looks pale, that he can't take his eyes off the food and that he's staring at it like a Catholic schoolgirl who got lost in a rack of porno mags, that he should probably have more than he intend to have.

(Honestly, Misha can't say for sure how a Catholic schoolgirl would look at a rack of skin mags, never having met any Catholic schoolgirls or taken them to the nearest gas station mini-mart. He supposes the reaction would probably depend on the girl and the available magazines, but… apparently, Jensen has some kind of experience in this matter, and _apparently_ , Catholic schoolgirls look at porn as though they're overworked blockheads who haven't eaten all day and end up making elaborate meals just for the Hell of it when they get home. And since he's Misha's best friend, and since he's carried Misha to the hospital for various insane reasons, there's probably no reason why Jensen would lie about lascivious, sexually frustrated Catholic girls.)

And that's not saying anything about the milkshakes — Misha's not supposed to drink them, they're just supposed to be for Jensen… but the only things that take the edge off the bullshit in Misha's life better than milkshakes are coffee, orgasms, and _Katamari Damacy_. And caffeine after two PM will keep him up all night, _Katamari_ will have a similar effect because he'll end up playing on endless mode until he can pick up pieces of the scenery and/or Jensen takes the controller away because Misha's maniacal laughter's gotten to an unnerving level, and it takes time, effort, concentration to get his orgasms just the right way to properly relieve his stress… More time, effort, and concentration than he can spare, most nights.

Time, effort, and concentration that he can only spare today because it's Saturday morning, because Misha got up early so he could have some time alone before he has to take Jensen's weight and measure his waist… Sighing, Misha digs his fingers into his chub again; he shudders when jostling the roll in his hand makes his whole stomach quake… As he finally flips the plug's switch — turns the wheel, rather; hears its clicking noise and gasps as the plug starts up on its lowest setting — Misha runs his free hand down his side… It's plusher than he remembers. Not quite a love-handle, not yet, but well on its way to getting there. His dick twitches, and he wishes he could be sure if it's from the feeling of his warm, soft flesh or from having the plug wriggling deeper into him, knocking into his prostate… Out of curiosity, he turns the vibrator off again. Grabs onto his side so fiercely that he actually digs his nails into the flab.

How much he's gaining… it's probably some staggering got to be the milkshakes' fault, he thinks, more than anything else… though, really, Misha knows that the bigger problem is how often he runs out of the apartment without breakfast in the morning, either because he's late or because he's decaffeinated and he convinces himself that no, really, it's better for his so-called diet if he just makes up Jensen's eggs (which, despite his _I can't cook for crap_ protests, Jensen could make himself) and doesn't eat anything himself.

He knows he's not supposed to have the milkshakes, but… he needs them, needs the relief, after some of the days he has at school — after riling his students up into one debate or another about _Great Expectations_ , and grading papers, and putting up with all kinds of shit from his advisors and his bosses (who seem to have developed some ridiculous notion that, because Misha isn't some simpering, submissive little troll, he's smarter than he thinks he deserves recognition for, enough of an equal to supervise other employees, and cover extra sections of his class, and listen to his superiors' problems).

None of this, Misha knows, is exactly _conducive_ to his desire _not_ to get fatter ( _you're not **fat** ,_ he pauses to remind himself; _getting chubby, maybe, but not **fat**_ ) — but, at the same time, he knows that Jensen was right in saying that he cares too much what people think of him. Fall weather's good for him, for his belief that he can just dupe everyone into thinking he's still as slender as ever until he _properly_ starts his diet, something he means to do on some tomorrow that never comes. The chills mean Misha's been able to hide his growing paunch under jackets and his collection of enormous sweaters, because his face still hasn't changed much, so this way, no one can really tell that anything's different…

Not unless he has to take his top layer off, at which point Misha presumes that everyone can see what he sees: that his t-shirts are all clinging to him now; that some of them ride up on the bulge around his middle; that his jeans (his jeans with the thirty-inch waists; the same jeans he was falling out of back in May) are so tight, he ends up either doing them up underneath the lower curve of his belly or getting a muffin-top; that there's one pair of jeans that he needs to do up with a rubberband, attaching it to the button and looping it through the hole and maybe even throwing in a heavy-duty safety pin, just to be sure that he doesn't lose his ability to keep the damn things closed.

(He hasn't worn those jeans in about two weeks, in part because he can barely get them up his thighs anymore. Mostly, though, it's because he doesn't want Jensen to find out about them, or to discover how small they are. Because Misha knows that he's being ridiculous about them, and that he looked a half-dead mess when he could wear them comfortably, and that his waist wasn't meant to be so skinny… and more than anything, Misha doesn't want to break any of the promises he's made to take it easy, not where Jensen can see him do it and get let down.)

Misha's dick twitches again, at the thought of Jensen finding out about the jeans, learning that Misha's been obsessing over his weight in private, doing exactly what he said he wouldn't. More accurately: Misha's dick twitches at the thought of Jensen finding him in the midst of trying to get those tiny fucking pants on, just wandering in on Misha as he's got them clenching around his legs, as he wriggles pointlessly, slowly manages to inch them up his thighs (which have to insist on wobbling in this fantasy, even though they don't in real life, not that much, anyway)… Not that getting them up matters, since his fantasy-belly spills into his lap and he can't even dream of pulling his fly's flaps together, his stomach pushes them further apart than it does in real life and the mental picture of it sets his insides reeling with a sick twist of desire…

Not only does his dick keep trying to curl up at this thought, but besides that? …Misha lets it. He switches the vibrator on setting, turns it to its second highest, lets slip a moan… and lets his face screw up with disappointment when even this and feeling up his pudge don't get him all the way there, but leave him hanging with half-a-stiffy. _Fuck, fuck, dammit — come on, already, get a move on…_ He turns the vibrator up higher, splays his free hand over his plump little gut and tries to think of it being someone else's, anyone else's, as though this might help him… But it doesn't. He doesn't feel his dick doing what he wants it to until he admits what it is, until he really, viscerally thinks of it as _his starter-belly_ while he rubs it down, until he gets a handful of his middle's fat and hisses that he'll outgrow his ugly sweaters soon…

Then, groaning, he gets hard in a flash — if it can get his dick to snap into action like that, maybe he really does like this. Maybe Jensen's not just right about him caring too much for other people's opinions… maybe Jensen's been right every time he's smirked and suggested that this mythical 'tomorrow' is never going to come because, for all Misha complains, and stresses, and drives himself up a wall about it… maybe he doesn't mind how he's been filling out a bit. And Misha lets himself think about all this without any mental reprimands, teases his hand between his cock and his belly, brushes the backs of his fingers up and down the shaft in peace — until he gets to thinking that, maybe, he could stand to stop pretending he wants to diet and just enjoy himself… That line of thought kicks his self-doubt back into gear, and it tries to sour everything, tries to make him uneasy and judgmental about the way he got hard, about the vaguest possibility of accepting his weight gain…

Despite how much an irritating voice in the back of his mind protests, though, Misha's determined to let himself enjoy this time. He's _going_ to get his stress-relief. He'll get it if it kills him. Regardless of his self-doubt and how he came by the erection. His mental naysayer gets up in his face — all full of complaints like, _Jesus God, am I really getting off on this_ , and _but how long's it been since I've made it to the gym, this is disgusting on me, it's only sexy on other people_ and, _I know I promised Jensen, but god fucking dammit, maybe I need to just start keeping a food diary again, at least it'd remind me that skipping meals is a stupid move, it's turning me into a fatty again_ , and _oh, God, Mom's going to kill me_ — and he silences it.

Misha turns the vibrator up to its highest setting and moans as he lets his head loll back into the headboard again, lets himself slip into fantasy as he wraps his hand around his cock.

 

Misha was a beanpole when he first got to college, fresh off a summer of lectures from Mom about the dangers of the freshman fifteen and how he'd probably double that, or triple it, if he wasn't careful — and God, he was careful. He started the term at barely 165 and by Christmas, while Jensen and most everyone else had put on some amount of weight, Misha had dropped a full five pounds. Not that it really showed or anything, and not that it kept him from ogling the way that Jensen's clothes kept getting tighter... Or the way that a certain junior named Mark Sheppard ate in the dining hall.

It's not that Misha really meant to stare at Shepp the way that he did... At that point, he was still swimming in denial about his kink. More so than he does now, which is saying something. After his first winter break, Misha had been getting off to thoughts of his roommate (and new best friend's) and of Jensen's expanding ass. He'd lamented that Jensen's mother had apparently been a bit... _shocked_ when her baby boy had come home some thirty-odd pounds heavier for Christmas, whined to his journal about how Jensen's new clothes all fit him properly and had clearly been picked so as to downplay his soft, expanded middle, tried to talk Jensen out of dieting after they'd gotten hammered during a round of Jensen's Star Trek drinking game — and still, Misha hadn't admitted to himself that he liked the prospect of a partner with some extra weight.

He could barely admit to himself that he timed his lunches based on when he'd observed Shepp being in the dining hall, that he picked his seats so as to get the best possible view of Shepp taking on some enormous cheeseburger or pasta dish or whatever else was on the buffet today. The thought kicked around Misha's mind, sure, but... every time he could've clued himself in, given up and let his kink be itself, he froze up. Got a lump in his throat like he'd just tried to swallow a brick. Heard Mom chastising him in the back of his mind — _Remember to keep to your diet, Misha; you know the way that you plump up when you don't… Remember that? I know you must middle school, don't you? Freshman year. There's no way you could've forgotten and I know that you don't want to repeat that…_

He was playing at that same mental track over and over to himself the day that Shepp finally came over and sat next to him… It was a Thursday. Late January. And as much as Misha wanted to be ogling his fellow students — Jensen, or Shepp, or anybody else — he was a little out-of-sorts instead… Limply stabbing at a salad that he wasn't interested in, trying not to think about the essay he'd just turned in for a literature class that he was starting to doubt his advisor's choice to recommend the class to him, the professor's choice to let him in… His paper was seven pages of a total mess, arguing something he could barely even remember about _Jane Eyre_.

All Misha wanted to do was go back to his and Jensen's room, put on some stupid movies, and cry until he felt better… but he still had his History of Human Sexuality survey lecture to get to after lunch and the only reassuring thing about that was that it was refreshingly basic. Sometimes mind-numbingly so — and then, ostensibly out of nowhere, a tray clattered down next to him; the sound of it hitting the table, that of silverware tinkling on the red plastic, shook Misha back around to reality, and he found himself gaping up into Shepp's smirking face, barely hearing his bone-dry comment, _This seat taken?_ , and not getting a word in edgewise before Shepp sat down next to him.

Misha wanted to run — all he could fathom doing in this situation was running, just… dropping everything, grabbing his notebook and backpack, leaving his half-eaten food behind and _getting the Hell out of here_ — Shepp didn't even do anything untoward, aside from helping himself to a seat without an invitation. Once he settled in, he smiled, politely asked Misha a bunch of random-seeming, 'getting to know you' pleasantries… They knew each other's names from meeting at the campus LGBTQ alliance sessions, of which Shepp was a co-chair, and apparently, Shepp had taken it upon himself to meet Misha 'properly.' _Apparently_ , he felt like he hadn't done the best job acquainting himself with the new underclassmen and, as the co-chair who would still be on campus next year, Shepp wanted to make himself available, to try and foster some sense of community amongst his so-called 'ducklings.' He asked what majors Misha was considering, where he and Vicki had come from, when he figured out that he was bisexual, when he'd come out (if he had), what books was he reading for pleasure…

For all he mumbled his answers to his salad more than to Shepp, Misha considered it a victory that he got them out at all, and a bigger one that he managed without his cheeks burning up with a blush. Misha and Vicki had come from Massachusetts, and, as far as he knew, she was batting more potential major ideas around, but he'd only been thinking of one major, really: gender and sexuality studies. (Shepp nodded in approval at that choice, and recommended that Misha try to get in the good graces of someone called Dr. Edlund, or at least his TAs, since Edlund didn't normally concern himself with anyone under junior year.)

Misha figured out he was bi around twelve, maybe thirteen, and did so because of some class assignment on _Lord of the Flies_ , which he really couldn't resist turning into chatter about Golding's sort of sexualization of the adolescents' violence — "I… I was a really weird kid? And my dad's left intellectual literature journals out around the house since I can remember," Misha offered, by way of attempting to explain. Regardless of how completely insane he guessed he had to seem for that, he went on, told Shepp about how he'd tried coming out to Vicki a few months later, but she already knew so the conversation mostly devolved into some awkward nonsense about why she had to be the freaking smart twin. He still, technically, wasn't out to his parents, but… pretty much all of his friends knew. And at the moment, he wasn't really reading any books for pleasure because Dr. Manners's lit course ate up most of his time, these days…

Shepp sighed and nodded sympathetically. "I usually tell people to avoid Manners, if they can," he said through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, one he proceeded to wash down with Coke. "I'm not saying that the man isn't brilliant— because he is. Absolutely so. Astoundingly so, even— I mean, he is so unfathomably brilliant that your mind might not be the same after taking one of his courses… Even his TAs are brilliant. He hand-picks them with that in mind, I think. Pity I couldn't get to you before you signed up for that torture… at least, you seem like you'll be able to handle him. He'll get easier to deal with, if it helps you any. Not any easier in terms of grading or assignments or holding you to some ridiculously high standards, but you'll get used to it and then you'll come out better for it. Trust me."

Misha nodded. Mumbled a, 'thank you,' but… couldn't really think of what else to say — vaguely, he supposed that eating properly might have fixed that. He hadn't really gotten breakfast that morning, not unless stealing a pack of Jensen's Twinkies on the way out the door counted… and Misha didn't count it as anything but a massive slip-up on his part.

And, sure, he _wanted_ to go back up to the buffet and get some of the lasagna that they had out (and that looked fantastic, judging by the massive pile of it sitting on one of Shepp's plates)… but he'd eaten _Twinkies_. For _breakfast_. They had the nutritional value of sugar-coated cardboard and Misha couldn't just throw some dormitory lasagna into his stomach on top of that, not without (he thought) completely undoing the five pounds he'd lost…

The silence itched at his skin, left Misha awkwardly aware of how he probably should've had more to add to the conversation… but Shepp jumped up and threw out a new question instead: "So when did you learn about your kink?"

_The fuck what_ , he thought — Misha dropped his fork, mind racing with too many half-baked, fumbling thoughts of, _fuck my life_ , and, _oh Jesus, see me through this_ , and _oh God, oh God, oh Flying Spaghetti Monster, please just… let me have passed out and started hallucinating somewhere, fuck, fuck, FUCK_. He stammered that he had no idea what Shepp was talking about, and he was a virgin, still, anyway, so really… how could he have any kind of a kink… And all Shepp did in response was chuckle. Reach over to ruffle Misha's hair and call him _completely adorable_.

"First of all, precious," Shepp explained, "not all kinks are sexual in nature — in fact, many of them can be practiced asexually, and virgin or no, you jerk off, don't you?" He paused, stayed quiet until Misha met his gaze and nodded. "So you must have some sense of what gets you all hot and bothered?" Another pause. Another insistence until Misha nodded — and this time, Mark shifted in his seat… Maybe the way he moved was on purpose, maybe it wasn't, Misha couldn't really tell… All he knew was that it gave him a clear view of Mark's very tight t-shirt and the way it clung to, rode up on, the curves of his stomach.

" _Misha_!" Shepp snickered, snapping his fingers in front of Misha's face — and getting Misha to flush a rather violent shade of red. With an affectionate smirk, he went on: "You know what I think, pretty boy? …I think you're a bit young, emotionally. Intellectually, you're a superstar, but you're anxious, and you're something of an overachiever, you have very high expectations of yourself, and you probably like sitting by yourself at meals because having too many people around means having too many outside expectations to live up to… It isn't that you want to be popular, but you do want to be _liked_ … Any of this sounding about right to you?"

Misha mumbled a _yes, actually, it is…_ and shut himself up, just so he wouldn't have to admit that he'd started wondering if Shepp was a witch, or some long-lost descendant of Sherlock Holmes who'd managed to exit the fictional world for the real one, or an undercover FBI profiler, or… or _something_ to explain how he could _know all that_. For as little contact as they'd had before this point, he'd just thrown out one of the best assessments of Misha's personality he'd ever heard from anyone not named Vicki or, as of the past few months, Jensen — and, apparently, Shepp was just getting started.

"I'm also guessing, at least from how you've only pushed your salad around since I got here, that you're not the biggest fan of eating in front of other people…" (Here, Misha wanted to interject with whatever protest came to mind first, but before he could, Shepp went right on picking his psyche apart.) "You're thin — probably letting your obsessive-compulsive tendencies work themselves out by fretting over the Freshman Fifteen, rather than… oh, I don't know, worrying over the margins on your papers or whatever else it is you do. You look paler than normal, which could be that you were up late writing for Manners, or it could be that you haven't really eaten today — not eaten anything properly, anyway, since, if I may? A pile of naked, absolutely nothing on it lettuce does not a salad make.

"Now, Vicki's thin too, so we could just leave this at genetics, but I've had a few meals with her and _she_ doesn't get the same way that you do about eating in front of people… Also, she doesn't eat like a rabbit. More like a glorious, pre-hibernation bear. So I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you have some degree of issue with body-consciousness — and that it's not limited to just yourself, as I've seen how you look at me, at your roommate, at those girls on your hall who are rather in denial about their jeans being two sizes too small… And I can see you right now, probably wishing that the earth would swallow you whole, and Misha? I _am_ sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable, but I am just here to say, as someone who thinks you are a really interesting guy…"

Shepp went quiet for a minute. Took Misha's wrist in one hand, and used the other to guide Misha's hand under the hem of his too-tight shirt, then to press Misha's hand into his flesh. "Maybe you don't like this on yourself," Shepp said, nudging Misha's fingers further into his pudge. "Maybe you're afraid of it on yourself, I don't know… but you like it on other people, and _that's okay_."

Misha didn't think — couldn't think, not really… He wanted to run again, but figured Shepp could probably hold him down… Shaking his head, he whispered, " _No, it's not_ …"

" _Yes. It is_ ," Shepp said — and when he cupped Misha's jaw with his hand, it was… warm. Nice. Misha found himself trembling, but leaning into the contact anyway as Shepp offered, "Come out to dinner with me tomorrow. Let me _show you_ that it's alright."

And Misha didn't know what he wanted… His mind had apparently fucked off to lunch or something, but… Shepp was nice. And he seemed like he really _liked_ Misha. In a few weeks' time, he'd have opened Misha up to his kink (started that process anyway) and he'd get Misha's V-card — and, sure, they're not always on the best of terms, exactly… But that's just because Shepp knows Misha in a way that no one else does, save Jensen and Vicki. Probably because no one else has some Sherlock Holmes psychologist-in-training witchcraft going on like Shepp does. That doesn't mean Misha doesn't like him.

Or that Misha doesn't remember the thrill he got that first time he had his hand on Shepp's gut, the way it shocked up his back and made his muscles twitch, the way he forgot how to breathe properly for a moment because everything in his conscious mind was an infinite loop of feeling up this new guy in his life, who'd ostensibly just wandered in and figured Misha out, seemingly put no effort into that… The memory of that alone gets his stomach to drop, shiver, and Misha clenches his fingers around the base of his dick, attempts to will it to stay harder, longer, build up the tension just a bit more…

He can't maneuver his hands how he wants to, not properly — he can't hold onto his balls and the vibrator's control both, the way he wouldn't have to if he'd been smart enough to break out one of his cock rings, the way that toy would constrict on him and keep the blood in his dick… But getting his grip on his cock helps. He holds it tighter than is exactly comfortable, but not enough to hurt. Just because no, no, there's no way in Hell Misha's ready to cum yet.

 

Jeff was different from Shepp — it went without saying, Misha guesses now, as he's trying to find the right thoughts, the right memories to go with his quest for self-pleasure — he went through relationships with Richard, Matt, and Katherine before he spent his few months with Jeff… Naturally, he was looking for something else. Some _one_ else — someone older, more sure of what they wanted… which, in Jeff's case, was something without frills, or bells, or whistles…

They both wanted something where neither party had to go out of his way for the other too much. Jeff wanted someone to feed him. Get him out of the ex-football star body that a few years of dicking around in an office job hadn't managed, even though he at like a horse and sat around all day. Misha guesses he was looking for someone not so entirely focused on being able to read him so well, seeing through any of his bullshit about kinkiness, or self-esteem, or whatever subject happened to come up.

Playing around with emotional attachments never went well for him. Shepp could see right through him. Richard didn't seem to do jack squat, except make Misha fall for him — _fall_ didn't even really cover it… It was more like flinging himself out a window for want of some energetic, unexpected little prick named Richard. Katherine called him emotionally unavailable. Initially, she and Matt wound up hitting it off because, apparently, Misha had fucked them both over by preferring not to talk about his own problems… And since getting attached didn't work out, Misha figured why not try it Jeff's way. Why not just screw around without the nonsense of feelings.

The biggest difference, the thing that makes him stand out among Misha's roster of ex-people, was probably that Jeff didn't like to talk —about feelings, or bullshit, or anything that involved too much thinking or attachment. Not like he was antisocial, or a jerk, or whatever… He was just a more physical guy than Misha had ever dated before him. And Jeff worked out great, that way, and he seemed to like the arrangement just fine. Date night most often meant that they got pizza or Misha made dinner, maybe they had a milkshake, watched a few minutes of some incomprehensible professional sport, and, eventually, regardless of what else happened, they fucked. Hard and fast, or slower and ferocious, or maybe without even leaving the couch.

Jeff asked about Misha's issues, sometimes, but only when Misha seemed like he was sulking, and he usually just left, "I had a crap day," alone. He _could_ see through Misha's bullshit artistry, on some level or another, but as Misha's coming to find out these days, that didn't exactly make Jeff special. It took him one visit to Jen and Misha's place to figure out how badly Misha wanted to be fucking Jensen, but he never got jealous about it. He thought it was cute. Thought teasing Misha over it was fun, and got to be the only person in the world with the privilege to do that. Because they didn't care that much, beyond being platonically fond of each other and enjoying the sex.

And Misha liked it that way. Liked it without feelings, without that much making eye-contact, even… Jeff's way of handling things often wound up with them at his place, with Misha's back all up on Jeff's huge mattress and his really nice sheets (hypoallergenic, some stupidly high thread count or whatever)… Jeff didn't waste a lot of time in formalities, or being tender, or. He liked it rough. Liked it best when they got animalistic. When he could lube Misha up and finger him open just enough to keep things _pleasant_ , instead of painful. He kissed like a wolf trying to take down a moose, biting wherever he could, regardless of where he put his lips or how sensitive the area might've been, left Misha with hickeys so huge and dark that, once, Jensen thought Misha was being abused and threatened to beat Jeff's ass…

Which lasted until Jeff came over a few minutes later and Jensen saw the way they assaulted each other's mouths. And it's for the best that Jensen left it at that, really — even though Dani had him working out at the time, the idea she had of a "good look for him" back then seemed to be stick-thin, with just a little bit of tone. And Jeff still had hard muscle underneath his paunch, bulging rocks for biceps and abs that Misha could feel, even once he'd worked a nice, hefty gut onto Jeff's middle… He'd have massacred Jensen, in any kind of fight.

Besides, Jeff would've wasted energy in doing that, and Misha would've wasted time in taking Jensen to the ER, and it was all better spent with Jeff pounding his dick into Misha's prostate, or with Misha sinking into Jeff's lap, feeling Jeff's dick fill him up and the stomach-twisting _twinge_ that came with that because of how thick Jeff was, biting back when they kissed because, hey, he could get into that, too.

At the outset, they were friends-of-mutual-friends, the sort of people who'd make random conversation at a party but not get too deep into it… And after they broke up, they settled pretty nicely into being just friends — maybe friends who didn't see each other all that much, since Jeff had his own work, Misha had school and work, and their circles of mutual acquaintances didn't have that much overlap… But friends, nevertheless.

Misha tries to narrow his focus, tries to get his mind off of Jeff — not because of anything Jeff had done, not because Jeff isn't turning him on… Jeff's keeping his interest pretty solidly. Keeping his dick hard as he moves his hand up and down the shaft. But there's too much opportunity for Jeff-thoughts to lead to Jensen, to thinking about Jensen, thinking about all the positions that he and Misha could get tangled up in and having Jensen's belly underneath his fingers.

And it's not that these don't do anything for Misha… They do much more than anything else, so far… But there's supposed to be an element of _not_ thinking about Jensen. _Not_ letting his mind get lost in thoughts of his best friend, of what he wants and can't have.


	10. The Sun Who Makes Me Shine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha's still enjoying his PWP, and similar-sounding names and a serious case of obliviousness are the only reasons Misha doesn't accidentally out his crush on Jensen. Also, Jensen should learn to knock. Just saying.

Matt didn't start big, for all he'd gone up and down the yo-yo's string a bit, since freshman year. By the time they started dating, though, he was taller than Misha, heavier but leaner-looking just because he had more muscle lurking, mostly out of sight, on his frame. He fooled pretty much everyone into thinking he was a geeky toothpick, standing around in just t-shirts and jeans, when he wasn't going out of his way to show off the part where he _did_ know how to find the gym… Once he'd put on about the first twenty, thirty, pounds he started getting crazy dominant in the bedroom, though. Which wasn't really incentive for Misha to play fair with Matt's constant protests of, _No, but really, I'm getting on a diet already, Meesh…_

Like Misha's current attempts, Matt's diet never came. He was up sixty-five pounds by the time they broke up… He'd only gained forty-two when they road-tripped to a Star Trek convention. Jensen hadn't gotten with Jared yet, so he tagged along; of the three of them, he was probably the only one who wound up spending any kind of serious time at the con. Matt and Misha made time for Leonard Nimoy's panel, and for one with Andrew Robinson and Alexander Siddig, but otherwise, it was all the two of them up in their hotel room, the one Matt's mom had agreed to pay for, just so they wouldn't need to share their space with the folks she called _possibly creepy Trekker jerks_.

Even though he went on to get bigger, Matt was probably at his most appealing then, if mostly because of the relationship problems that hadn't reared their ugly heads yet. Misha got to just curl up with Matt on the hotel sheets, press his stomach up against Matt's ballooning pudge, get his hands all over the love-handles that had taken their sweet time showing up on Matt's sides, on his ass… Good God, his ass. For a while, they'd worried that his weight gain was some ongoing mistake of the scales, just because his stomach didn't seem to show it… but, finally, the noticed that Matt's ass strained all his jeans, insisted upon itself from every angle, and under Misha's hands at that moment, it just squished so _nicely_. Gave Misha the perfect place to grope, the perfect anchor so he could yank himself closer to Matt, rub up on his softening body…

When Matt took his shoulder and pinned him to the bed, at first, Misha's startled, gasped. But it turned into a laugh at the way Matt puckered his lips. Got worse, flailed and batted at Matt's arm as he took to tickling Misha's stomach. "First Officer Spock," Matt drawled, in his best, most over-the-top imitation of James T. Kirk. He pressed his hips — his gorgeous little belly — down against Misha, grinding on him, letting him feel the erection Matt was sporting. "First Officer Spock, I thought it was unbecoming of a Vulcan to laugh under any circumstances whatsoever…"

Still laughing, Misha wormed both of his hands around Matt's arm. He let one grope at Matt's stomach, caressed Matt's pudge — and he wrapped the other around Matt's dick, dragged his thumb up the underside of the shaft, starting from the base and going so slowly that Matt groaned something barely intelligible about what a jackass Misha was. With a smirk and a flick of his wrist, Misha pulled him into a gentle kiss.

"I might be a jackass," he chuckled into Matt's mouth, "but I assure you, Jim: it's for perfectly logical reasons."

 

Even though it all went wrong in the end, Misha and Kat had their fair share of moments, too… And despite what she keeps saying to Sera, and Gen, and anyone who'll listen, she liked the way that she filled out while they were together. She won't admit it now, but she told him so several times — which, come to think, is probably why she won't admit it now… though it's equally likely that Misha's just reading too much into things.

He hates when he does that without realizing it, more so when he does it with his hand on his cock, when he's supposed to be thinking about how Kat looked naked.

Maybe her confession about it had just been really honest pillow-talk. Maybe it'd been some wonky attempt at manipulating him, like, _I can see there's some depths that you're not letting me into, so I'm going to tell you all about how my life in high school sucked because I was skinny, and I got boobs late, and everyone thought I had an eating disorder, they used to joke about it, can you even believe that, like that's so fucking funny…_

The sad part — or, in Kat's mind, maybe the best part — was that Misha could believe it. He knew exactly what she was talking about and, although this never got him to open up about himself like she'd (maybe) wanted, it _did_ make him want to follow her to a high school reunion so he could give a personalized verbal lashing to every single one of her so-called "friends." Some friends they'd been. Even after how they broke up, Misha still hates those people for what they did to Kat.

But ruminating on every sadistic thing he'd do to these people he's never even met? Trying to suss out Kat's motives two years past their point of relevance? Is so not what Misha needs right now. He turns the vibrator down a few speeds — it's been a rotating cycle of faster and slower, but Misha thinks he'll keep it on a lower setting for a while, just keep himself stimulated by stroking at his dick, focusing on those luscious curves still hasn't lost, how invitingly soft her body used to look when they slept over in each other's rooms…

Unfortunately, none of that pandering to himself makes his mind stop wandering to less sexual things, to more _emotional_ ones.

They first met in a sophomore year seminar class about sexuality and body-consciousness, or the anthropology of bodies and sexuality, something like that… Misha mostly dazed through it, once he realized that all he had to do was breathe and Dr. Edlund thought he was brilliant. Thought everything he had to say about Foucault or whatever-the-fuck-reading-of-the-week was _brilliant_. Thought Misha just lived, and breathed, and crapped _brilliant_.

In retrospect, he's not even certain that Dr. Edlund knew what the course was about. That'd definitely explain how he got it in his head that Misha was doing anything noteworthy (a delusion that's hung around to this day, that sometimes makes Misha feel guilty, but that he tries not to mind, on account of Dr. Edlund being just crazy enough to take Misha on as a TA).

And sure, Misha put in effort… Sometimes. When he felt like it. He never half-assed the essays or other assignments, for all he tended to show up to class sleep-deprived, or hungover, or still a little bit drunk because, hey, that's what Dr. Edlund _got_ for scheduling a class at nine in the fucking morning on a Monday. But, well… it wasn't like his classmates he got away with enough ridiculous shit that everyone else in the course hated him by the four-week mark, if not sooner.

Everyone else, except for the tall, skinny blonde with legs for days and more angles on her body than Misha had on his. Oh, sure, Misha thought Kat wanted to see him fall off a glacier and die, just like the rest of their classmates did, but then she stuck up for him in a heated debate about American body-image issues and whether or not their classmates had their heads up their asses.

(They did, in Misha's opinion, and in Kat's as well. Edlund, as ever, remained Pointedly Neutral, but… considering Kat and Misha were the ones arguing in favor of, "maybe you all should shut your mouths with these half-witted assumptions about who does or doesn't have what kind of issues," and considering they took home that class's highest marks, Misha thinks it's safe to assume Edlund agreed with them.)

They first fell into bed together about a year later, because neither of them had gone home for Thanksgiving… Well. Fell into bed in a metaphorical sense. The library was open late — already starting twenty-four-hour service in preparation for finals — and they got stuck on the red-eye shift. Wound up flirting over whether the Library of Congress or the Dewey Decimal system was superior. Tossing books to re-shelve at each other. Being obnoxious just because the only other person in the place had holed up in the computer lab for the past several hours and had her headphones in — even if she could've heard them, it seemed unlikely that she'd care.

So, one thing led to another, which led to another, and another, and eventually, everything led them to the Pillow Room, one of the library's study spaces, where the collection of enormous pillow-seats made a perfect place to sneak a quickie that probably would've been less awkward if they hadn't kept bursting out in giggle-fits because the other did something stupid, like imagining a possible interloper, or accidentally kicking over a chair.

And they broke up on bad terms, sure. Neither would deny that. But their fight can't invalidate the time they had together, or make Misha suddenly forget their quiet moments that no one else ever learned about… The way she dressed well for the weight she gained, made it look more evenly distributed, but how, when they tumbled into bed, she couldn't hide the fact that she got her plumpest in her hips and thighs.

Or the way she snuggled up underneath his chin, pulled herself plush against his body in the post-coital haze, and got him to admit to little things, little body-image-related things that he preferred to keep shut up — never as much as she wanted to hear, sure, but… on one occasion, he told her how the worst part about breaking his leg in some ill-advised, snow-day Ultimate Frisbee had been that, when he tried to adjust his eating habits, people noticed — Jensen, and Shepp, and Richard noticed — and they took it upon themselves to peer over Misha's shoulder at meals, and no one took it seriously that the twenty-some-odd pounds he gained upset him. On another one, he let it slip that he'd taken the red-eye holiday break library shifts because Vicki couldn't get time off work and didn't like the thought of letting Misha go home alone.

Or the way that, some months on, after he'd dated Matt and started fooling around with Jeff, Kat never managed to _really_ hate Misha — at least, one time in the August before their senior year, she called him to _get his ass over here_ and lace up her bodice for the Ren Faire because _Matt and Sera couldn't do it right_. And when Misha flopped out of bed at five on a Saturday morning, he found not a massive chewing-out or a few moments of mutual berating, as he'd expected, but a sparring match of snark, the way they'd talked before their relationship blew up. As he tied up her laces, she didn't take the opportunity to call him handsy or a pervert or anything else, even though Misha hadn't needed to fuss with her muslin top or how Kat had arranged the bodice.

And, despite every time she'd complained about it, about how Misha wasn't getting chubby with her, Kat brought up all the weight that she hadn't lost, in a pleasant tone and (she said) so Misha wouldn't have to… even though he'd just been thinking that the fake hibiscus she'd pinned in her hair looked perfect with her choice of blouse and skirt.

 

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum: everything was fun with Genevieve, partly because they'd never intended to hook up at all, much less start dating. At least, Misha suspects this is the case.

Probably a little bit of the fun they had came from how he got to educate her about their now-shared kink for weight gain, chubby partners, and so on, notable because all Misha's previous exes had been in-the-know before he got there. With Gen, though, Misha got the pleasure of guiding her through it. They hadn't planned on her getting as heavy as she did… They just started with some random conversation about how Jared had the same kink, and how Genevieve was sick of having a body that people told her was "perfect," as though this was their call to make, as though it did something other than make her self-conscious.

She'd been a little apprehensive about gaining weight, at first, which Misha understood… Gen couldn't deny that she was a conventionally pretty girl: on the short side, sure, but slender, curves in the right places (and not enough of them to put anybody off), gorgeous dark hair, a megawatt smile (one that, judging by Jared's, ran in their family). And one of the pressures of being a conventionally pretty girl was always that people expected her to stay that way. To do everything in her power to always meet their expectations for beauty.

More than having just that intellectual grasp of things, though, Misha understood the feeling of being under pressure, of having eyes on you constantly (or feeling like you did, even if that might not have been the case).

But, for once in his experiences, Misha got to be the leader, got to reassure Genevieve that no, really, it was more than fine for her to tell _those_ people and their expectations to fuck themselves straight to Hell; that as long as she was happy, what they thought didn't matter. It was hypocritical of him, as she's come to realize, but Misha still got to hook her up with everything he knew, instead of finding out she'd already heard it or, even worse, being the one to wait for some sharing time that could come… whenever. If it even came at all. If Shepp felt like letting Misha's nerves have a rest.

And he doesn't underestimate how important it was that they shared so many random, geeky traits, that they had enough differences to be their own people, but that they could bond over all sorts of little things. Not least the fact that, because people considered them good-looking, no one ever expected them to have brains, much less be interested, much less totally immersed, is nerd culture. Gen wrote fanfiction too — porn about Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger, granted, but she still learned about Misha's Kirk/Spock and Harry/Cedric fics before Vicki and Jensen did. She made her own costumes for cosplaying at various geek conventions, and she did a _mean_ take on Sailor Mars. Eventually, after talking Vicki and Danneel into being her Uranus and Neptune, she did a fantastic Sailor Pluto.

And Gen, like Misha, thought a Friday night most successful when they spent on the sofa, bingeing on bad TV, maybe doing shots, give or take some pizza or some popcorn before they got to making out. Before she shoved him onto his back, pawed at his chest and hips and jeans. Before she wound up clenching her cushiony thighs on his sides as she rode Misha's dick, giving him very specific instructions for how she wanted him to fondle her tits, dragging all her motions out… Refusing to let either of them get close, just because Jensen was at Jared's dorm tonight and, hang everything about expecting the unexpected or having respect for his roommate, Gen and Misha might as well have had all the time in the world for this lazy fuck.

 

That's what Misha doesn't have right now: all the time in the world. He knows that he's all good and worked up — if he let himself, he could just cum now and get it over with — but he doesn't want to… Not yet. Not until he frustrates himself a little more. Gets some more _need-fuck-oh-god-holy-fucking-ugh_ behind the orgasm that he'll eventually have… On the one hand, it's a matter of self-control. Misha knows that he can hold out longer, knows he has other fantasies to fuel this, knows that he should hurry the fuck up already because it's not like he doesn't have things to do today and dragging it on forever just increases the risk of Jensen getting pissy about how he _needs to weigh in already so he can eat, Misha, come oooooon, he's hungry, whine, whine, whine_.

On the other hand, though, everything comes back to the release Misha needs… He can't just end this yet and, knocking the vibrator's speed up another notch, he clenches his fist around his _seriously_ swollen cock. Bites on his lower lip, just barely letting slip a pained whine… Even without anyone to overhear it, he hates that noise. Loves everything that's causing it, from the beads of sweat forming on his back and forehead, to the hypersensitivity from all the blood pooling in his dick, to the sick, all-consuming rush that comes when he gasps and sends him flopping into his headboard.

But he hates the desperation in his voice. He bites on his lip even harder at the sound of it, telling himself that no, no, fucking Hell — he can't let himself get off yet, or it won't do the job… He'll come out of it as if nothing happened. As if he'd just had a quickie with his hand in the shower. And Misha can't let that happen. He can't. All the work he put into the set-up, all the stress that led him here… this has to count for something or Misha's going to fucking scream. He should've gotten his actual cock ring out, instead of trying to use his fingers as a poor man's substitute — the fact that he didn't _think_ is just… He'll have to learn for next time.

Because this time… there's no real fixing _this_ time. Misha's pretty much stuck here, on his back, making the best of the hand he's played himself because moving? Right now? Only gonna happen if it involves his hand, or maybe rocking forward because he's built this up too much, overwhelmed himself, needs to curl up when he cums.

On second thought, Misha guesses that he can see why he didn't think about bringing out one of his other toys, why he allowed it to slip his mind. Rings were Richard's favorite toy to play with because, in his words, Misha just looked so pretty when his cheeks got flushed and he started begging for release. Shepp had been the one to introduce Misha to orgasm denial — because he was a bastard sometimes, Shepp preferred to play with it while also getting a kick out of the chance that they could get discovered… Like jerking Misha off under the cafeteria table or something like that.

Richard was a whole different breed of animal about getting Misha off, though. Anything he did in public was limited to flirting, accidental bumps or nudges to let Misha get a feel of his ass or his belly, letting Misha feed him. As far as they allowed anyone else to see, they were about the best behaved couple in their class… And then, once they closed the door to someone's dorm, Richard was all cock rings and handcuffs, leather gags and somewhat more interesting restraints… He bought Misha's first vibrating plug (the one that came before the one Misha went and lost). Used it on Misha, taught him how to use it on himself, how to prep his own ass for anything… Today's only even possible because of Richard.

The thought of that makes Misha turn his plug back up on its highest setting. His moan comes from deeper in his gut this time, makes his entire body tremble with another twist of _fuck-fuck-dammit-need-oh-God-fuck_. When he knocks his head against the wall again, he's distracted enough not to care about the pain. The only things he feels are the feeling of skin-on-skin as he brushes his palm up along his dick, the quiver he gets any time there's too much contact with his cock, and the plug shivering against his insides, pounding against his prostate… He _can't_ drag this out any longer, he can already feel himself coming undone…

But there's a positive side-effect of how lost in everything he's gotten: fantasizing comes to him easier.

Richard had never been too much a dominant or a submissive, and he liked switching up positions, and who topped. By the night they finally got his weight up to two-oh-five, Misha'd taken the lead on things more than enough time for him to be used to it — but the expression he wore as his back hit Misha's mattress was all bug-eyes and slack jaws. He held it as Misha straddled his hips, leaned down and stretched out on top of him (an awkward maneuver, given their height difference), the only differences being an occasional quirk of Richard's lips or eyebrows.

He lost that look when Misha kissed him — though, thinking back on it now, Richard probably would've kept staring at him, if Misha hadn't incited things. If he hadn't felt that overpowering need to get his mouth on Richard's, to knot his hands up in Richard's shirt and grind their lips together hard enough to leave bruises, bite at Richard, tongue at his teeth, doing everything in his power to taste _all_ of Richard's mouth.

Richard smirked once Misha finally took a moment to breathe, reached up to gently thread his fingers through Misha's hair. "Well, Jesus, Meesh," he snickered. "If I'd've known you'd get so uppity over me beating my record for milkshake consumption… you wouldn't've been waiting so long for me to break it, I'll tell you that much."

Under normal circumstances, Richard's accent would've gotten some kind of rise out of Misha — either because of his pronunciation, or that lilt of his, or his charming sentence structure. But the only rise it got this time was out of Misha's dick. Then out of Richard's, when Misha paid the right attention to his belly, bucked his hips down into Richard's, nipped at the warm flesh of Richard's neck.

"God, I love you, you know that?" Misha whispered as he felt Richard's dick rubbing up on his thigh. "You're just… I can't even…" _What words are you supposed to have for someone who wants to put on a hundred pounds, because he wants to, sure, but mostly just to make you happy?_ Misha brushed his fingers over the curve of Richard's side, pressed them into the soft flesh of Richard's belly… That got him to smirk again, smack Misha's ass… and Misha wriggled, rubbing his own slim midsection against Richard's stomach.

"I don't know what you are," Misha said, lowering his voice, feeling his cheeks flush because… what the Hell, he was supposed to be able to find the right words for everything. At the very least, he ought to have had them for his _boyfriend_ , the first one he'd really loved, since… yeah, he and Shepp had been fond of each other, but it hadn't been love… Not the same way that Richard got Misha's throat to choke up just with a glance, or the way his chest flared up when they were too close and he couldn't have his hands all over Richard's body… Misha leaned down and kissed him again — gentler, this time; kinder, but with care and precision, like trying to suck out poison.

" _Hey_!" He startled at another grope of his ass — at Richard jerking their hips even closer together… It shouldn't have been possible, Misha thought, but they still managed to find space where their bodies hadn't made contact. "I'm not… I don't know… I haven't got the words, but…" A tender kiss. Light as the breeze, just a soft motion of tongue on tongue, lips on lips. "But, just… Just let me show you, okay?"

And he showed Richard well and proper, kissing places aside from Richard's mouth first, biting and sucking at his softened chest, his rounded belly, his love-handles, his thighs — Misha went up and down Richard's entire body, teased at his dick without actually making good on the implicit offer… He left hickeys all over Richard, made constellations of them — violently dark purple splotches that stood out stark against his pale pink skin and its vague, golden undertones. And, finally, once he had Richard tugging at his hair, groaning for him to _get on with it already, you fucking brat_ , Misha fumbled for the lube.

He smacked Richard's hand away and fingered himself open instead, settling on the plush seat of Richard's thighs, contorting himself and doing everything that Richard had taught him… By the time he finally sank onto Richard's dick, the foreplay had worked both of them up so thoroughly that, really, sex was a formality — he gasped at the sensation of being so thoroughly filled, moaned when Richard found his prostate. Misha let his hands sink into Richard's flab, used his belly to balance, massaging it as he rode Richard… He clenched his muscled around Richard's cock, clenched his thighs on Richard's hips, tried not to lose himself just at the feeling of Richard clenching his fingers on Misha's dick.

" _I love you_ ," Misha gasped — Richard held onto him harder, flicked his wrist and twisted his hand around Misha… And the words probably didn't mean that much, not on their own… He just hoped that Richard understood that they weren't just bullshit, that they weren't just some heat-of-the-moment crap, thrown out while Misha didn't have his wits about him. That the words came from a deeper place than the groan they shared at climax, that Misha could've faked them if he wanted to, but that he wasn't just screwing around right now or saying things because they sounded nice.

Without pausing to pay attention to the mess of jizz he'd gotten on Richard's hand and stomach, Misha flopped down next to his boy, tangled up their limbs, let everything come together in a knot of sweat and heavy breathing. Lazily, he brushed the backs of his fingers down Richard's middle, nudged his nails into Richard's flesh. He nuzzled up to Richard's neck, half-asleep, and murmured _I love you, I love you, I love you_ to Richard's skin until they both passed out, with more urgency than he'd felt in saying anything else that he could remember. As though repeating these three words would make it impossible for Richard to doubt how much Misha meant them.

 

But Richard had found a way to doubt them, Misha supposes now, amidst his shuddering, labored breaths, as he works his hand up and down his cock, the same way that he's done for he doesn't even want to know how long, by now… True, it's probably not Richard's fault. Not really. Circumstances arose, needed dealing with, these things happened every day. Just usually not to the person who made Misha love him, to Misha by extension. And Misha knows better than to let his mind go onto Jensen — he knows that tantalizing himself can't end well for anybody, least of all Misha himself. But drifting off into thoughts of Richard didn't work out well for him, either.

For a moment, Misha just tries to open his eyes. He's had his face scrunched up so hard and for long enough that it's uncomfortable, that he thinks it's probably too bright in here, as he finds himself blinking at delicate sunlight. What rays of it filter past his curtains, that is. He stares up at his ceiling, at the little red-green-yellow spots that flicker over his vision as though he's just rubbed his eyes… He takes meditative breaths as he tries to turn his attentions and imagination toward anything but Richard, anything but the horrid way that everything between them ended. He keeps moving his hand in the same methodical rhythm — up, down, up, down, twist here, dig the thumb into the base of his shaft there, like he's copying it all out of a textbook and being graded on how well he sticks to the letter of the instructions.

His desire to get off's just… drowned. Gone. The side-effect of thinking about Richard, he supposes… Misha can't help thinking that it's some miracle he didn't lose his hard-on. And, physically, he still wants the release, but mentally's another story. He grunts and knocks into the headboard, bangs his head on it another time, barely notices the pain over the pangs and the frustration of how much he's built up to an orgasm he can't bring himself to get interested in again.

Except for the powerful sway that Jensen has on Misha's desire, the way he can just breathe and it makes Misha's heart flutter, skip beats. Makes Misha himself want to run off a cliff, he's that certain that he could fly.

And he knows better. He _does_. Twisting his fingers around his cock again, again, again, all Misha can think is that _he knows better_ than to obsess over how much he wants his best friend. He knows that it's temptation enough, just watching Jensen put on weight the way he's done, cooking for him and watching him eat, scrutinizing his appearance every day because Misha doesn't want to miss out on any new developments, any extra skin that Jensen's too-tight clothes show off… He doesn't want to just let these small changes accumulate, then turn around, have it be January, and wonder when the Hell Jensen got so fat as though it wasn't Misha's doing. If he can't have Jensen, if Jared and Misha both know that Misha's not a home-wrecker, then can't he at least appreciate the view?

He can — and he does — and Misha stops fighting the fantasies. He lets his mind fuck off to wherever it wants, and wherever it wants is, naturally, to Jensen. To Jensen, chugging down another milkshake and letting it collect in the stubble about his lip. To how tight Jensen's shorts are getting on his ass. To the way this past week's left Misha acutely, _painfully_ aware of how Jensen's belly isn't the only place he's gaining weight. In a vague way, Misha supposes that he's been stupid, not expecting Jensen to get bigger elsewhere, not looking out for extra flab in all kinds of places… But it's really attracted Misha's notice this week, starting with the pair of jeans that Jensen split up the back, rather than blowing the button off the way he usually prefers to do.

Misha thinks about how Jensen might look naked. He switches the vibrator off, while he's still in control enough to do so, yanks the plug out of his ass by the cord connecting it to its control. Thinking on Jensen's brought his interest back, gotten Misha more dedicated to chasing his relief… Trying to imagine all the curves of Jensen's that he hasn't seen. How his ass might look without a pair of jeans around it. How it might sag, how much softer it must be than it was six weeks ago, when Jensen invited himself into Misha's lap… Misha wants to feel that, wants to feel Jensen pinning him to the sofa with the weight he's gained. He knows that he can never have this, not in any non-platonic way, at least. But the thought makes his lungs clench up. Spasm inside his chest. Heat drops into Misha's stomach, and it turns. Misha flicks his wrist. He knows he's ready, now — he can't hold out any longer, and he gives his dick one last jerk.

And as Misha clenches his eyes shut again, blows his load onto his hand, his sheets, and feels everything get lost, come undone in white heat — as the tension in all his muscles goes wibbly-wobbly instead of tightly, dangerously high-strung — as the relief from his orgasm floods every inch of him, Misha lets three words slip out of his lips. A single cry of, " _Oh, God, Jen!_ "

And there's nothing wrong with this, he thinks, toppling back into his headboard, feeling his heart race, struggling to get his breath back and, for all his attempts at this, just feeling like a fish on the deck of the boat it wants to escape from. But there's still nothing wrong. Misha repeats this mantra to himself, dead-set on making himself believe it. He's alone, just getting off, no one hurt and no crushes outed and nothing wrong at all, at least nothing wrong that Misha actually needs to deal with.

But then he hears his bedroom door creak — there's a snicker to go with it.

Misha snaps his head up. Meets Jensen's eyes — sees him standing there in the doorway, eyes wide and expression otherwise inscrutable. The last clear thing Misha thinks is simple: _oh my… fuck my life_. Flailing, limbs beyond his own control, Misha fumbles his attempt to grab a pillow. It ends up in his lap anyway, at least. His gaze drifts to the floor, the ceiling, his dresser, his closet, the wall behind Jensen's head — his pulse runs harder, faster than it has since he quit having the time for gym visits — Misha can hear it pounding in his ears, and he knows that his mouth starts running without his consent, throwing out excuses, or half-phrases, trying to just… do damage control, however he needs to do it—

And he shuts up at the sound of Jensen laughing.

The fire behind his blush extinguishes and Misha pales, all from the sight of Jensen's enormous, face-straining grin.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Meesh," he chuckles, idly twisting the doorknob in his hand. "Look, you just… clean yourself up or… do whatever you need to do, and meet me in the john when you're ready for the weigh-in, okay?"

Vaguely, Misha wonders what world Jensen's living in. Because, in the real one, the reaction to hearing one's non-sexual best friend calling one's name during climax… Granted Misha's never been in the same position, but… But. Isn't Jensen supposed to be reacting to this more? Or differently? Or… in any kind of way that isn't just trying not to laugh his ass off?

But Misha only manages to nod. Jensen _smiles_ at him (which makes Misha vaguely want to punch his teeth in), nods back, and closes the door. And once he's alone, Misha shoves the pillow onto his face. Screams into it, claws at the pillowcase. Throws the thing at the door and has to wonder what fucking _bowl of stupid_ he'd eaten for breakfast on the day that he let Jensen talk him into doing this… ridiculous, romantic, 'project: fatten up for Jared' thing.

Misha hates _everything_. Hates his _entire fucking life_. There's no way in Hell he can live this down.

 

But he'd have a harder time dealing with a broken promise — one that he made to a friend (to his _best friend_ ) and then broke because he couldn't handle the repercussions of his actions. Because he just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. Because, for whatever reason, his brain's fucking around with him and making Misha think that that's any way to cope.

As he takes tissues to his mess, wipes it up and wriggles into a t-shirt and a pair of his (increasingly tight) boxers, Misha reminds himself that he _knew_ this would come out eventually. He knew that, sooner or later, the truth would end up in the open. And sure, he hadn't planned on Jensen finding out quite the way he did… But Misha sighs. Resolves that he won't let this screw up everything. His life's not over, not yet. And Jensen seemed to take it well, at least, so his friendship isn't over, either. Things can be all right — no, _no_. Things _will_ be all right. He might need to adopt that as his personal mantra properly — and with that in mind, Misha fumbles out of his room, over to the bathroom, and right into his toothbrush.

It prods him in the cheek, knocks into his nose, and he stares at it for a moment. Blinks at it. Wonders if it's going to do a trick, or try to assassinate him, or something like that. Only rouses back to reality because he hears Jensen start talking in his biggest, hammiest, best television announcer voice: "Misha! Misha, Misha, do you have a second for the E Channel — Misha Dimitri Collins, ladies and gentlemen, here on the red carpet at the Evil Overlord Awards — now, Misha, if you'd be so kind, please let me ask the question that's on everybody's mind tonight: how _are_ you coping with the recent news that Genevieve Padalecki, your ex-sweetheart, the woman you still love, is apparently hitting it off big time with one, Danneel Ackles?"

Misha's mind races, at first, as he tries to think of a bunch of potential responses, anything that he could throw out in response to whatever bullshit Jensen throws his way — but Misha pauses. Lets Jensen's words really hit him (which they do, with the force of a smack and the tactfulness of a bullet to the head). And as he furrows his brow, wrinkles his nose, slowly allows himself to gape up at Jensen's innocent, smiling face, only one word actually seems to fit the situation: _what_.

And Misha knows he's gone slack-jawed. He's aware of his irregular heartbeat, the stop-and-start spasms of his attempted breaths. But it takes him a long moment to realize that he hasn't actually said anything. Misha frowns as though he's just swallowed an entire bag of sour candies and stammers into Jensen's toothbrush-microphone, "w- _what_?"

No, seriously, that can't be right. Jensen has to be fucking with him, now. Misha stares at him expectantly, waiting for him to let it slip that yeah, he totally overheard Misha's orgasm and what he called out during it, and this is just his way of proving that he knows Misha got off to thoughts of him, but he's just dicking around to prove that it's okay.

Instead of doing any of the above, Jensen hoots at him, laughs again as he ruffles Misha's hair: "Don't be so modest, Romeo!" he says, his grin straining his face even more. "I heard you calling out her name just now, so, really: how do you feel about her hitting it off with Danny? Did you and Vicki eavesdrop on their date last week because you're _jealous_? Gasp! Misha!" — he actually says the word, feigning an actual gasp to go with it — "Did Genevieve _get you pregnant_? And now she's seeing someone else, and _that's_ why you've been obsessing over your weight so much — oh, God, can you imagine the scandal, like… that would be some _All My Children_ shit up in here — am I right, am I right, am I?"

Misha's going to fucking kill something. Or scream. Or kill something, throw the French-press Vicki gave him last Christmas out a window, and _then_ scream. Of all the fucking times for Jensen to, A., be completely oblivious to _everything_ , and B., act like an over-caffeinated, cracked-out squirrel at some inhuman hour of the morning (that is, "before noon on a Saturday") — _of all the fucking times_ for him to do this… Jensen had to pick _fucking now_. It's adorable, sure. The same way that _everything_ Jensen does is, on some level, so adorably endearing that it _hurts_. But trying to fathom just what made him think Misha meant _Genevieve_ -Gen and not _Jensen_ -Jen… It's just a recipe for the biggest headache of Misha's life.

Besides, they've got other things to do. So Misha just sighs, runs his hand back through his hair. "I'm _not. pregnant_ , Jenny," he says (and hopes that he doesn't sound too frustrated). "Nope, there's… I'm happy for Gen and Danny, and there's no scandal whatsoever. Definitely not a pregnancy scare because…" Another sigh, and Misha has to pause, grind his fingers into the bridge of his nose. "Not a pregnancy scare because I'm _not pregnant_ , I'm just… getting fat, I guess?"

Jensen scoffs and flicks a finger into Misha's forehead — gives him A Pointed Look, as if to ask why, exactly, Misha insists on forgetting all the talks they've had about not being too tightly wound, or too hard on himself, or anything like that. Misha sighs again, amends his statement, "Fine. Not getting fat either, just… a little bit chubby? Is that an okay compromise? Can we live with that?"

With a smirk, Jensen worms his hand past the hem of Misha's shirt and gleefully pinches at Misha's stomach — Misha can swear that he sees Jensen's expression falter, like he's got his fingers on a bigger roll of flab than he expected — but, for one thing, Misha's probably imagining things. And for another, Jensen lets his smirk melt into a pleasant smile. "I think you're blowing it out of proportion still," he says, and as though it makes his point, he jostles Misha's tummy. "Okay, sure, you're a little bit bigger, sure. But you're not _that_ chubby."

"Okay, how about pudgy?" That's about the nicest word in Misha's vocabulary to describe how he feels about his weight, right now. It's softer, less abrasive… Maybe Jensen will go for it.

Shrugging, Jensen just waggles his eyebrows and eyes the scale. Tells Misha to _put up or shut up_ — and just because Misha wants to get this circus over with and back on track, he obliges Jensen's newfound interest in monitoring his weight. When the scale's tinny voice announces that Misha's put on another eight pounds in the past two weeks — _**Misha** , today your weight is **one-hundred and eighty** pounds_ … _For your height of **five** feet and **eleven** inches, your weight is **overweight**. Thank you. Goodbye_ — Jensen says nothing, doesn't react at all, and with this coming on top of everything else about today, so far, Misha kind of wants to drop dead.

Instead of trying to drown himself in the sink, though, Misha finds himself hugged from behind. Finds Jensen's arms wrapped around his chest. He relaxes into Jensen's embrace — and then finds himself in the position of having to comfort Jensen. By the time Jared gets his cervine ass back from Oxford, Misha expects he and Jensen will both be sick of the scale's automated vocal chords, probably ready to chuck it off a bridge… And, though he wishes he could've heard it himself, Misha can't deny that his heart sinks a little at the news the thing gives Jensen: _**Jensen** , today your weight is **two-hundred and fifty-one** pounds. You have **lost.** **three.** pounds since your last weigh-in. For your height of **six** feet and **one** inch, your weight is **obese**. Thank you. Goodbye._

Misha hugs Jensen for a moment. Listens to him fret over how that doesn't make any sense, how he can't have lost any weight, he's been doing everything that he and Misha agreed he would, and he's not sneaking out behind Misha's back for anything like visits to the gym or whatever… Misha nods against Jensen's neck, because he knows that Jensen wouldn't lie about this, and he gives Jensen's shoulders one last squeeze before breaking out the measuring tape and wrapping it around Jensen's waist.

He clocks in at forty-three inches — and, as Misha explains while fixing up breakfast, that means any weight he seemed to lose this week could've just been some random fluke. "I mean, I know the numbers are supposed to be objective and all, but…" He looks over his shoulder at the table, where Jensen's sulking with a milkshake and a mug of coffee. Misha sighs. "Firstly, Jen? If I'm not allowed to obsess over anything, then you aren't either, got it?"

Jensen nods. Sips at his milkshake. Supposes that this proposition seems more than fair, and that he can go along with it.

"Secondly," Misha tells him, turning his attention back to the prodding his spatula at the pan full of eggs, "there's still a visible upward trajectory in your weight, okay? And… so the scale says you dropped three pounds. The measuring tape says you've added half-an-inch from last week — do you have any idea how massive a change that is? It doesn't seem like much, I know, Jen. Believe me, I know. But putting it on in a week…? That's pretty huge. And, lastly? Most importantly, I might add? …Jensen. _Jensen_ — dammit, Jenny Thunder, get your head out of that milkshake and _look at me_."

Misha pauses and prods at the eggs again — then turns back to the table and keeps his eyes on Jensen until the jerk makes eye-contact with him. Sighing, Misha concludes, "Think about what you told _me_ , alright? …Whatever the scale says, the most important thing is that _you're_ happy — and you are, right?"

Jensen smiles at him and nods, then asks the same of Misha. And he wants to keep eye-contact, because Jensen did for him and because it makes him look more honest — but as he supposes that he's coping but still not entirely used to the idea, yet, Misha has to turn back to the eggs. Not that he _wants_ to turn his back on Jensen while answering an important question… but Misha caught a whiff of something funky, and he can't obsess over his weight, so he might as well obsess over making sure his and Jensen's breakfast is as perfect as Misha can make it.


	11. Buns And Ammo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Danneel has a Halloween party and, despite wondering where Misha's gotten off to, Jensen tries to thoroughly enjoy himself. Mostly, he ends up having an unexpectedly Serious Talk with his cousin.

Danneel's Halloween party does not actually take place on Halloween — mostly, in her words, "because nobody likes trying to party on a Monday night, Jenny… I mean, sure, doing shots to take the edge off is fun and all, but it's really not worth it. And partying on Sunday's no good because people have to work on Monday. Besides, twenty-nine and thirty-one are close enough together… so we're having the party on Saturday. It can be like pre-gaming, but with candy and Genevieve dressed up like a sexy nurse. And I'm talking like, ' _hell-ooooooooo, Nurse!_ ' from _Animaniacs_ -style sexy."

Jensen doesn't doubt that Genevieve, however she's dolled up for the occasion, will be easy on the eyes… but, so far, the only thing he's seen of the party is how Danny's place looks from the outside. So far, he and Misha have been sitting in the car.

They've been sitting here long enough that Jensen's stopped keeping track of time and just counted off the songs that Misha's ipod has played for them. And they've been through "Come Together," "Fat Bottomed Girls," something angry girl rock-sounding, something indie-sounding, "China Girl," some song or other from _Evita_ that wasn't "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina"…

And Misha's ensuing half-baked pseudo-lecture about, "what the Hell even, Ackles? I mean, Jenny, you know I love you, but, just — what kind of gay boy _are_ you? Letting your Sassy Bisexual Misha show you up on musical theatre knowledge — I'm only half-gay, remember? I shouldn't be able to show you up on stereotypical things. And you can't even say I'm exaggerating here because Andrew Lloyd Webber is, like, _remedial_ -level musical theatre. It's not even a 101 course."

Oh, and three different songs from _Doctor Horrible's Sing-Along Blog._

And Misha's still just… sitting in the passenger seat. Fussing. Obsessing over everything. Trying Jensen's patience in ways that he can only get away with by virtue of being Misha. And leaving Jensen to find anything he can to amuse himself — which means puzzling out the logic behind Danny's decorating choices, since he's long since gotten bored with toying around with his phone.

The house that she rents with Vicki, James, and Michael sits on an otherwise quiet, very normal-seeming street, packed full of smallish homes that can fit several people in them, as Jensen expects is typical of suburbs in or around a college town. It's a nice enough place. Fixed up a little, because it's older than all of them, but you can't hardly tell where Jensen, James, and Michael had to paint over things, or where they had to play with things.

…and then there are the Christmas lights dangling off of everything because their presence means _PARTY TIME!!!_ in Danneel-speak. And there are all the ones that look like random things — Jack O'Lanterns, the anthropomorphic M &M's, bunches of chili peppers. Not to mention the sparkling streamers, the cut-out skeletons and witches she went and hung on the windows, the fact that the house looks like she bought the entire seasonal decor aisle at Target just for this party… Probably comes with the territory of being partly rented by Danneel Ackles, Future Wannabe Contestant On _Design Stars_ , _Project Runway_ , and one of those shows about people with weird-ass collections of random-seeming shit.

And, sure, Danny isn't the only person on the block who's decorated for Halloween… but she's the one who's gone the most out of her way to make her place all shiny and interesting-looking. There are stuffed scarecrows and plastic skeletons hanging from a tree on one house's front lawn. And one place has that irritating fake cobweb crap all over the trees. And there's one house that has a small army of wooden cut-out figures — a witch, a mummy, a werewolf, a Frankenstein's monster, and something that Jensen thinks is supposed to be a mad scientist.

…At least, he assumes so because it's in the shape of a tall, scrawny guy with a manic grin, goggles and work gloves, a cauldron, a lab-coat, a Tesla coil knock-off (painted on the wood, instead of standing on its own), and a haircut that would suit Doc Brown better than it would suit an actual, _serious_ scientist.

Misha wrinkles his nose at the would-be Mad Scientist Dude. "Ugh, what a poser," he huffs and shakes his head, speaking for the first time since Jensen got Thoroughly Unimpressed over his Andrew Lloyd Webber Lecture.

"Meesh, it's a stand-up thing on someone's lawn. I really don't think that constitutes being a poser… or that it's possible for him to _be_ a poser."

"Well, he's perpetuating a poser's attitude," Misha insists, glaring at the thing as though he's planning to kill it. "Everybody thinks you can just… look like you just put your hair through some bullshit with a Delorean and cackle a little and, boom! You're a mad scientist. Whatever happened to taking pride in your work? Or plotting to try and save the world, but going way overboard and falling off the slippery slope because you fucked with things that man was not meant to know."

Jensen sighs, and gives Misha A Pointed Look— he's really trying his best not to smirk, just because Misha's been hacked off like this since last night and smirking would just encourage him… but it's hard not to at least _snicker_ when Misha insists on being a dork.

Behavior that is emphasized even more by his choice of costume: Dexter… the animated scientist, _Dexter's Laboratory_ Dexter — and although Misha changed his costume choice at the last minute, he has the look down perfectly. The shiny-looking purple rubber gloves. The black plastic horn-rimmed glasses and their thick frames. The black Beatle boots, freshly polished because Misha is an obsessive-compulsive nerd. The pristine lab-coat (which Jensen's pretty sure Misha stole from one of the university's actual laboratories).

Not that he didn't expect Misha to actually put some time and thought into pulling something together. Misha's always that way — over-thinking things so he can make them amazing… But the difference in their respective approaches is still sort of _noticeable_.

Still sort of _really_ noticeable.

Still sort of really, _really_ noticeable, in Jensen's mind, at least. Nothing against either of them or anything — especially since Jensen has absolutely no idea who'd be keeping score — but their approaches to this whole, "getting all fancied up for a Halloween party" thing are just so… _different_.

Different being either the nicest word for what's going on tonight, or the most accurate one — Jensen's not even remotely sure which. It's just… well, with their. Considering that Misha looks like he's going to compete in (and probably win) a costume contest at Comic-Con and Jensen just looks like a fat guy who hates wearing shirts? …Which he _is_ , in fairness, but it doesn't do anything to improve their utter lack of ability to visually complement each other.

The only thing Misha refused to do was get his character's hair color right, even when Jensen pointed out that he could go with the temporary spray-on dye or a ginger-orange wig or something. All Jensen could be bothered to do was throw on some jeans and a too-small flannel vest-that-at-one-point-was-a-shirt, like with sleeves and buttons Jensen hadn't long since ripped off and everything. On their way out of the apartment, Misha tried pointing out that Jensen just looked like himself.

Jensen's since decided that, if anyone asks what he's supposed to be dressed as, he's a _Playgirl_ centerfold model.

Which means he's _flaunting_ the fact that, after three grueling, slow-ass weeks, he's knocked his weight up to two-sixty… while he's ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that Misha vetoed his original plan of being Sailor Moon because he's being self-conscious over the mini-skirt that it involved. And the tight leotard. And pretty much everything else that, unlike his thick, loose-fitting lab-coat, would've shown off the fact that his so-called diet's still not really going that well.

Letting his eyes linger (perhaps a bit too long) on Misha's middle (but totally just to admire his outfit), Jensen can't recall actually seeing all that much of Misha's body lately… He's been using the weather to hide in his collection of ugly, oversized sweaters. The ones Jensen can only excuse Misha owning because, apparently, his Grandma Krushnic made most of them. And, sure, they're all kinds of hideous — Jensen can't picture some obnoxiously blue number with a black-and-grey snowflake pattern across the chest looking good on _anybody_ , not even Misha or Jared — but… he can dig on loving your grandma.

And it doesn't take a neurosurgeon to realize that Misha's wearing them as often as he's done so lately because they hang on him more than his other clothes do, because he hasn't lost any weight yet, and he's been borrowing some of Jensen's jeans and t-shirts… If Misha _has_ lost weight, Jensen can't tell — not that Misha's let Jensen anywhere near the bathroom while he's been in there, much less the scale while he's been toying with it. But when Misha shifts around on his seat, Jensen can see the little hints of curve pushing against the lab-coat, the suggestions of what his stomach might look like, how plush…

Apparently, appreciating the work that Misha put into his costume (and absolutely nothing else) makes Jensen go quiet for too long, because with an exasperated groan and a cough to clear his throat, Misha starts talking again: "Are you sure we absolutely have to go, Jenny? Won't Danneel forgive us if we make up some bullshit about having to give our students some big fuck-off test on Monday?"

Chuckling a little, ruffling Misha's hair (and getting, for his trouble, an irate huff that makes Misha sound like a kitten), Jensen says that yes. They absolutely have to go. "And if you try to feed Danneel any bullshit so she'll let you go, I'll sit on you, you understand me?" Jensen smirks, but he mostly means this threat, a point that he vocalizes when Misha arches an eyebrow at him.

"Look, Meesh, seriously…?" he says, lowering his voice and, for maybe the first time tonight, being earnest without throwing. "You need to get out of the apartment. More importantly? You need to get the fuck out of your own head. If you don't have fun? Or at least a hangover? I will be put out. And maybe a little insulted. I will consider crying at you."

Misha sighs, and finally acquiesces. "But seriously," he says, "we're only staying for an hour or so, okay? I've got shit to do tomorrow and no time to just… give up because of, like. I don't know. Getting too hungover or kidnapped on some road-trip to Martha's Vineyard with Gen and Vicki or some-fucking-thing like that."

And, really, Jensen supposes that that's okay… that Misha's request isn't all that terrible or stupid or unreasonable. As long as he gets out of their place and has fun… As long as he turns that big, overactive brain of his off for a while, Jensen thinks he could tolerate Misha doing just about anything. Anything short of, like, committing a war crime or trying that shit with the DeForrest Kelley zombie again. …Seriously. That shit was messed up.

 

Well over an hour-and-a-half later, Jensen's still at the party. Moreover, Misha's still at the party, too, though… Jensen has no idea where he's gotten off to or what he's doing. But considering there's no horde of zombies running crazy all up in here, or explosive devices detonating, or some other Apocalyptic, 'shit, we left Misha alone with access to things only he and his demented genius can make dangerous'-class shenanigans going on, Jensen's willing to bet that, at the very least, Misha hasn't gone and gotten himself in trouble.

For his own part? Jensen's wrapped up in a drinking game, one set to _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ and all the call-backs that anyone can think of — and Jensen's not really sure what the rules are, or when you're really supposed to take a shot, but nobody else seems to get it, either. And so far, no one's pointed out that Jensen definitely hasn't drunk as much as everyone else — a precaution that he has to take just because he knows Misha so well, and he _knows_ that Misha will not turn down Danneel's jello shots, and he _knows even more_ that Misha will insist on going home, so… someone has to be sober enough to drive.

Jensen's fine with no one commenting on his ostensible lack of consumption. He likes drinking games, sure. And he likes Genevieve and Vicki, feels predominantly ambivalent (but not exactly _negative_ ) about James and Michael… but maybe some of Misha's social over-awareness is rubbing off on him or something like that. He even catches himself wondering if anybody else has their eyes on him, if they're looking at his stomach and thinking, _Jesus, what a freak, why the Hell is he flaunting how fucking fat he's gotten_. It occurs to him, out of nowhere, that the rationale for his costume is stupid… Like, so completely and utterly stupid that Jensen has to wonder if Misha's pissed off at him, because, by all rights, Misha should've tried to talk him out of doing this, tried to talk him into some costume that involved a shirt.

So when the conversation turns away from the movie, over to costumes and what, exactly, everyone's supposed to be dressed as, all Jensen can think is, _Ignore me, ignore me, please, Jesus, just let everyone ignore me_. Luckily for him, the big question of the night, at first, seems to be whether or not it counts as a costume for James and Michael to get dolled up like, according to Vicki's testimony, they do for sex.

"Which," she tells everyone who's sitting on or around the huge sofa that their drinking game's gone and annexed. Maybe it's just the alcohol getting to her, making her act like some deranged pixie schoolteacher, but she's teetering on the edge of full-on lecture mode. " _Whiiiiiiich_ is against the Rules of Halloween. Because it's not really a costume. It's not, okay? It's just not. It's like… kind of playing dress-up, except that you'd still do it without it being Halloween, and you _do_ do it without it being Halloween, so… it doesn't count."

Vicki's drunk. Getting into completely fucking shit-faced territory and, just by breathing (not to mention swaying around and slumping on Genevieve's shoulder while singing along with Tim Curry's musical numbers), she's making Jensen fuck-all nervous. He knows she doesn't mean to… but Vicki has the same laugh as Misha, more so when she's hammered and smells like fruity-flavored rum. And an even less functional notion of other people's personal space than he does. And even if she decides to ignore Jensen just to focus on calling out James and Michael, sooner or later, Jensen knows that the myriad ways she and Misha are too similar for comfort will put him on edge about where Misha's gone, and what Misha's doing, and how it's totally his fucking fault if anything happens to Misha, because Jensen made him come here in the first place and might be a shitty best friend. The shittiest of all possible best friends.

This is probably an indication that he should never, ever drink with Vicki, if for no other reason than the part where she's Misha's twin and has some magical power to make Jensen start feeling all randomly overprotective of Misha.

But at least the other goings-on are interesting enough to everyone else — the debate over James and Michael and whether or not they're "properly" dressed up has enough attention that Jensen. And though Jensen couldn't really give a shit less about Vicki's rules or whatever, it's easy to lose himself in the bullshit and, in so doing, remember that Misha's an adult (albeit a rather spastic adult with no functioning sense of his own emotional wellbeing), and that Misha can, in theory, take care of himself.

It's easy enough to pretend that the only thing going on over top of the movie is this ludicrous, "are James and Michael celebrating Halloween right?" discussion. Of the two of them, James is wearing what most looks like a costume — a pair of skin-tight black vinyl pants, mixed with an Oxford top, a tie, and a sweater-vest… If not for Vicki deciding to broadcast the fuck out of her housemates' kinks, Jensen would've just guessed that James was some grad student who moonlights as a stripper to pay his rent. Which… what the Hell and fuck all if Jensen knows, maybe the son of a bitch actually does that, so Vicki's totally right and he's not technically wearing a costume.

Michael, on the other hand, is dressed not entirely unlike Jensen. Wearing jeans and a vest, which looks a lot more socially acceptable on him because, as his numerous muscles so proudly show off, he actually still spends time in the gym. The only other difference between their outfits is that Michael has a collar. A black leather O-ring collar, just… sitting there on his neck, with a leash that James is holding onto and with the ring gleaming in the low light like, _hey, Jensen, how YOU doin'? Don't you want your boy to put me on YO' neck?_ He knows that he really shouldn't stare — especially since he hasn't had enough booze to justify totally failing at social skills — but… he can't deny that he likes it. How nice it looks on Michael's neck. He doesn't entirely want Jared to put one of those on him, just because he doesn't entirely want to limit them to roles or anything, but at the same time, if Jared ever suggested it…

Sighing, Jensen feels his cheeks flush and he tries to turn his attentions back to just… looking over everyone else's costumes. Despite being the one who first brought up these so-called rules, Vicki's not apparently dressed as anything in particular. She has her same-as-ever jeans and t-shirt and glasses on, looks no different from she would on any other day (that's to say: like an almost perfect carbon-copy Misha, if his face were a little less angular, if he were shorter and a little thinner, if he had boobs, and if he wore his glasses more often). And she only explains this choice when she's pushed for an answer.

"I'm a psychopath," Vicki says while tossing back some of the margarita that Danneel whipped up for her earlier — and which, really, Jensen kind of wants to take away from her. She might not be as much of a ridiculous drunk as her brother is, but she's still a Collins. A _drunk_ Collins. A drunk Collins who is getting herself increasingly drunk, which can only lead to _disaster_. "We look like everybody else, ergo a costume isn't necessary."

"That's _definitely_ against the rules of Halloween," James snarks, lips at the rim of his shot-glass. He pauses only to throw the whiskey back with enough. "You're not even putting in any effort, Vicks — I mean, cribbing lines from one of those Addams Family movies to justify your own laziness? That is _low_."

"Oh, screw you, Prince Floppy Hair," Gen cuts in, and rolls her eyes at… probably everything, though Jensen's willing to bet she's especially judging James, right now. As much as she can look like she's judging people when she has Vicki on her shoulder, slouched over and nuzzling her and humming along with _'Toucha Toucha Touch Me.'_ "I think Vicki's costume is super-creative, and it's a lot better that she didn't get all decked out. I mean, God, what if someone took their eyes off of you and Michael and how you're taking that whole, 'well, it's Hallo-fucking-ween, so you're allowed to dress like a total slut and no one's allowed to say anything about it' rule up to fucking eleven. And it's only supposed to apply to _girls_ , you know!"

"I revised that in the official edition of the Rules, actually," Vicki deadpans (which must be some kind of Herculean feat for her, at this point). "It was gender-biased and I just… I refuse to sanction any of that crap in my rulebook."

Genevieve snorts into her beer, and somehow manages to look bored while doing so… like cuddling a randomly drunk Vicki is just something she does every fucking night. Costume-wise, she's tossed on one of her Sailor Scout outfits for tonight, the one with the red and purple color scheme that she wore a bunch of times when she and Misha were still dating… It's tight, in some places (mostly throughout her torso, and most noticeably around her stomach), but it doesn't look _bad_ or anything.

Of course, Jensen reminds himself, it's probably going to look some kind of tight or other, because she's still got most of the curves she gained while going out with Misha… And, regardless of anything that's going on, she looks cute (even if she was supposed to be dressed as a sexy nurse). When she asks for his opinion and makes a face as if to suggest that she's just caught him checking her out, Jensen shrugs and guesses that he'd hit that, were he even remotely interested in girls.

"Cute's one word for it," says Michael — tall, athletic, muscular, annoyingly perfect-looking Michael with his washboard abs, and his collar, and his sort-of-but-not-entirely ginger-colored hair and his appearance's only flaw being that his teeth are _fucking huge_ and _fucking numerous_ and they make him look like a _fucking shark_. …Jensen sort of wants to punch him, just to see what'd happen, and he wants this even before Michael goes on: "I think Genevieve looks kind of trampy, which is bad enough when skinny girls do it—"

"What the Hell's that supposed to mean?" Jensen huffs, attracting stares as he speaks up… And entirely unsure if people are staring because he's been predominantly quiet and polite for the past little while, or because he's actually getting pissy (much less doing so with Michael, who could take him to the fucking carpet, if they ever )… And if it's the latter option, then fuck everything, he's _allowed_ to get pissed off when one of his friends — one of his friends who is _also_ a part of his boyfriend's family — is getting insulted for loving her body and daring not to conform to some arbitrary beauty standard.

Michael, for his part, just gapes at Jensen and blinks. Entirely lapses into a deer-in-the-headlights face, and says absolutely nothing for long enough that Jensen starts giving him the third degree: "Just… what the Hell is that supposed to mean, Mike? What's so bad about Gen wearing whatever the fuck she wants and, I mean… who even cares? Or since when's it your fucking business to, like… have opinions about what she wears or how much she weighs or whatever? Because I don't think it's your fucking business—"

"I don't think I really picked the right words?" Michael interjects, with a pensive little sigh tacked on at the end. "Okay, no, no, I mean… I know I didn't pick the right words. It came out totally wrong and not how I mean, so I — can I explain myself?"

Jensen doesn't _want_ to say yes… but unfortunately for him, both Gen and Vicki send Pointed Glances his way and… "Okay, fine. _Explain_ yourself." _Like you can totally explain away being some other-people's-bodies-hating jackass and saying shit about stuff when you should just shut your goddamn mouth._

As it turns out, Michael _can_ totally explain that away — at least, he thinks he can. He even spews out some nice-sounding excuse that, despite what Jensen wants to insist, isn't quite as bullshit as wishes he could believe… It's all a bunch of, 'what I really meant to say was that she's not really leaving a lot to the imagination' this, and, 'I mean, the costume looks nice, but it's ill-fitting in some places and that really ought to be taken into consideration before wearing it, don't you think?' that, and, 'I don't even fucking care that she's fat, okay, Jensen? It's all a matter of like. Of like. Of being able to show some, y'know, self-respect enough to get a new costume when you need one, or wearing one that, like, fits, you know?'

Generally, yeah, Jensen knows. And he might even agree a little bit… but mostly, he just sulks out and makes for the kitchen to the tune of James petting Michael's hair and cooing that he's such a ridiculous drunk, which makes Jensen want to puke in his mouth a little. _Yeah, right, because being a ridiculous drunk totally excuses him being a body-policing jackass… ugh, I hope you both choke on those jello shots_ — Jensen just needs some time alone before he goes through with all his urges to smother Gen and Dani's housemates.

 

On the one hand, he doesn't find any time alone waiting for him in the kitchen. But on the other, Danneel is the only person there, and Jensen can handle that, not least because she's about the only person he could stand to be around right now. Misha's a close second, he guesses, slumping into the counter and watching on while Dani mixes up another round of some alcoholic Lord only knows what — but at the same time, Misha's… well, _Misha_. And with how totally, blatantly, _obviously_ not-well he's been doing lately… Jensen wants to be there for him, sure, but…

"But you feel like you need some time off from chasing after him, right?" Dani says without looking up from playing double, double, toil and trouble with her giant plastic bowl of mixed liquor and flavoring and probably ten other things. As usual, she's perky, and bubbly, and she sounds like her voice is fucking carbonated — but she's also completely and entirely right. She sighs in unison with Jensen, just one more of their moments of randomly synching up with each other, and for all he can't tell too well from her profile, he's pretty sure that her smile's toned itself down into something softer. More pensive. And instead of looking at him when she goes on, she slurps some of her concoction out of a tablespoon and, after a moment's consideration, decides to add more vodka.

"Look, Jenny," she says, despite being so apparently focused on her work, "you know I love Misha and all. He's your best friend, and _you_ love him, and he loves you, and all of that's great…" Her pause seems laced with more meaning than _well, the witches' brew needs some more mango-flavored Bacardi and Dani has to taste-test it so she can figure that out_ — but when she picks up again, her tone is as confusingly pensive-but-chipper as before: "I'm not saying that Misha's not a great person or anything, either, because he really is, and he's a sweetie… but sometimes, he's crazy and that can get exhausting? And, I mean… you live with him, so, like. You probably know that better than anyone else, right? And it doesn't make you a bad person for needing to take a night off from that."

Danneel's not drunk, but she's probably getting there, just like everybody else at this shindig. Which is increasingly looking like a goddamn fiasco, from Jensen's point of view, but maybe that's just because he isn't drinking. "Why do you have to be so good at picking me apart and figuring out my inner monologue, Dani?" he mutters, fighting back a sigh as he does so, because it's the first thing to come to mind.

Because he doesn't want to get too quiet for too long, the way that Misha always does, right before he does something worrisome, and then turns around and says Jensen's just imagining things.

Because he probably sounds aggrieved enough and maybe Dani will get worried at the quiet, so Jensen can't risk setting her off in some other way by sighing like some petulant little kid. Or like some high school girl who's getting a five-hundred-dollar prom dress instead of the thousand-dollar prom dress that she wants her Daddy to buy for her. Or whatever Jensen's making himself sound like.

Apparently, he sounds like reason for concern, because even from her profile, he can see Danneel's brow knotting up in… confusion, or anxiety, or fuck it, maybe both. "I'm good at it because I'm your fucking cousin, Ackles. _Duh_ ," she retorts as though this explains absolutely everything that Jensen wanted to ask her ever. "And anyway, it's not like you really _have_ an inner monologue. Sure, I mean, you're not as vocal as Jared is… but that's because _no one_ is as vocal as Jared is—"

"Because Jared wants to be everybody's friend and honesty is one of the things he values more than… shit, more than everything." Jensen nods and hugs himself — he really doesn't want to get talking about his boyfriend, right now. Part of the appeal of going out was that he's supposed to be able to just… not talk about Jared in every conversation. The distance is getting itchy. Finicky. Fond of clawing at Jensen's nerves and reminding him that he still has a lot of fucking time until Jared gets back from Oxford… It's like, Jensen's made it this far, but… he misses Jay. He misses Jay's huge, rough hands, and hearing his laugh through a medium that isn't Skype, and he's losing any fake modicum of patience he's pretended to have with the mass presumption that he's going out of his mind without Jared here to _take care of him_ or fuck him senseless on a daily basis or… whatever it is that people are thinking.

He _misses_ Jared, sure, but that's not the same as _going crazy_. He can make it on his own. He's doing fine with Skype sessions and trading emails and honestly, it's kind of condescending of everybody else — and Jensen only realizes that he's been saying all of this aloud when Danneel reaches over and pops a suspiciously rum-flavored strawberry into his mouth. As he chews it over, she smirks at him.

"See what I was saying about you and inner monologue and how you two don't get along?"

Through a mouthful of the fruit, Jensen guesses that yeah, he can see her point. "But I still keep things to myself more than you'd think," he says. "Not as much as Misha, sure, but… Misha's like Jared's exact opposite, in that way, you know?"

"Also because he's short and Jared's, like, part-moose."

Jensen wrinkles his nose, and for a moment, he wonders if Danneel's recently had her ability to perceive heights replaced by brain damage or something. "Misha's five-eleven, sweetheart," he tries to correct her, and for the trouble, gets treated to an explanation of how she didn't mean he was, like, Shepp-or-Genevieve-class short… just that he looks _tiny_ when he's standing next to Jared. "…Dani, _I look tiny standing next to Jared_. I'm six-one, and I'm fat, and my enormous Sasquatch boyfriend makes me look short and underfed, okay? _Everyone looks fucking tiny standing next to Jared_ — not to mention how he eats enough for a small army."

She rolls her eyes and mumbles something that sounds like another indictment of Jared's _enormous goddamn height problem_ and _inhuman fucking metabolism_ and how it's not fair that he's fucking six-five but doesn't play basketball. And, vaguely, Jensen's rather tempted to agree with her… mostly because she's completely right.

But Jensen has a point to get back to, and he tries to do so before Danneel can decide that they're going to talk about how Jared's part-giant and Rubeus Hagrid's long lost cousin or something: "Anyway, like I was saying… trying to say, I mean. Just… I know it's not gonna make me a bad friend, taking a night off from running around after Misha or something. But it's really not his shenanigans or the crazy or — I mean it, Dani! It's _not_ the crazy!"

Maybe Jensen raises his voice unnecessarily to insist that. Maybe it's a bit of an uncalled for outburst — but, at the same time, Danneel had to know it was coming. She's facing him properly for the first time than giving him That Look of hers, the one that she gets when she's being assaulted with the stench of _lies_ — but Jensen presses on: "Look, Dani, I know how he acts sometimes. …Most of the time. I mean, I've only lived with the guy for five years, and… I dunno, maybe I spent the first couple weeks of freshman year scared that he was going to sacrifice me to whatever Cthulhu mythos deity-thing he might've worshipped. Trust me: _I know how he acts_ — but that's not Misha, okay? Not really—"

"Remember the old adage-thing, Jenny?" she pipes up, wrinkling her nose like she thinks he's caught some highly infectious stupidity-inducing virus or something. "'Mind your thoughts, for they become words. Mind your words, for they become actions'—"

"'Mind your actions, for they become habits. Mind your habits, for they become character. Mind your character, for it becomes your destiny' — of course I remember that shit. Like I could fucking forget it." Not like his mother recited that a million-and-a-half times when Jensen was a kid. "You left out the part about, 'Mind your waistline, for no one wants a fat husband.'"

Danneel shrugs. "Yeah, well, I never liked that part—"

"Yeah, somehow, I really couldn't tell that when you were running me ragged in search of some… mythical thirty-inch waist." He sticks out his tongue at her. He means this as a joke — but, even for all that intent, Jensen knows the words don't _sound_ like he's joking.

At least, Danneel smirks at him and reaches over to ruffle his hair. "Yeah, well, I've come around about that, and I'm pretty sure Aunt Donna has too, so… the 'mind your waistline' part can lick my clit and go die."

"It's an adage, so… I'm really not sure it can do either of those things." Which is all beside the point, even if being able to just… hang out and joke around with Dani is more than a little bit awesome. Jensen sighs, and tries to pick up where he left off: "All I'm trying to say about Misha is just… I know he's weird, but that's one of the reasons why I like him, y'know? It's not all that exhausting to me, and it's not really who he is, it's just this guy that he pretends to be around everybody."

Danneel scoffs, but keeps it so under her breath that Jensen can't make out what she says. If she says anything.

"I mean it, Dani," he tries to say without sounding like an idiot. Utterly unsure of whether or not he's succeeding. "You can't tell anyone I told you this, either, because Misha has this… psycho-neurotic thing going on about what other people think about him and he'll probably freak… but, like. Everyone thinks that he's completely unbalanced, and totally unsafe to be around, and in danger of, like… like we should just have him 5150'd or whatever. And if people don't think he's out of his fucking mind, they think he's a jerk, and some people think he's both, but… he's really, really not."

All this speech gets him is an arched eyebrow and a Patented Danneel Ackles Nose-Wrinkle Of Frustration. "Jenny, didn't he try to make a zombie out of that guy who played Doctor McCoy on _Star Trek_? In your building's backyard? And didn't that almost get both of you arrested?"

"That was a misunderstanding!" — It was creepy as all get-out, sure, but… "I mean, come on, there was no way he was actually serious about it… It was never going to _work_ … Even the cops knew that!"

"It's sort of hard for the rest of us to tell when he's being serious or not."

"Jared and Genevieve don't have any problems with it," Jensen points out. "Neither does Vicki, for that matter."

Danneel doesn't even need to stop and think, she just counters: "Yeah, well… First of all, I meant, 'the rest of us,' as in like… every human being who deals with him ever, so yeah, you came up with three counterexamples, but… I'm still right. Anyway, secondly? Gen dated him, Jay practically lives with you guys when he's here, and Vicki _shared a uterus_ with Misha. He might be your best friend but I'm pretty sure that she's got some privileged access to his thought processes by virtue of twin-think or whatever it's called."

Why the fuck does she have to be able to talk intelligently while she's well on her way to getting smashed? And while she's mixing up a vat of fruit-flavored instant alcohol poisoning? Jensen mumbles some half-baked excuse about how Misha's other exes don't seem to have such an insight into his behavior as Gen does— "Well, yeah, Jenny," Danneel says through a patronizing giggle. "Of course they don't. He actually, like, trusts Gen kind of — plus! …Plus, she gets to hang around more, on the grounds of you dating Jared, Jared wanting her around constantly, and Misha practically dating you."

Jensen can't help snickering at that assessment of things — at least, at one part of it: "Misha and I aren't practically dating in any universe, Dani. I mean, sure, rom-coms and TV and romance novels and shit all say differently, but… Meesh and I are just friends. And that's all we need from each other, you know? …He needs someone who gets him like I do but isn't going to pressure him for anything because we work just fine without fucking each other. That's what Shepp said," he tacks on in response to getting another suspicious arch of her eyebrow. "So he needs me like that, and I need him as like… my best friend who'd go to the ends of the earth for me and snark at me along the way because otherwise we'd both get bored, and that's all we need, okay?"

"All _you_ need, maybe," Danneel huffs, and gives Jensen the most ridiculous pout she's ever worn before finally turning back to her work with the bowl, ostensibly balancing out the booze with juice… until Jensen notices that the juice is actually her bottle of peach schnapps. " _I_ think that Misha needs to get _laid_. By some chubby, green-eyed dork with bow-legs who isn't you because you're taken, so he can get over himself, and his 'secret crush'…" Somehow, Jensen has no earthly idea how, she manages to make quotation marks with her fingers while still holding the schnapps in one hand and her giant white plastic spoon in the other… "I mean, like I said, babe? He's a great guy, and you _know_ I love you, but… you have _got_ to smell those pheromones on him, right?"

"Why do you have to use science-y words when you're smashed?" — Considering she usually talks like an adorably deranged Valley girl, there are only a few explanations for how Dani's talking: she's drunk; she's high; or she's been repressing her intelligence too much for too long and Jensen just gets to deal with the after-effects. More importantly, why does she need to go and make shit up when she's smashed? And clearly, she's a lot more intoxicated than Jensen's estimated, because that's the only explanation for the current kick Danneel's gotten herself onto. Jensen sighs and shakes his head. "Usually, the only thing I smell on Misha is his baking."

" _Really_?" she snaps, glancing back up at him and returning to the Suspiciously Arched Eyebrows. "Look, I mean… I'm just…" Danneel pauses, and sighs, and before she can pick up again, Jensen goes and tries to get his two cents in — since she can't deny that he's got more of a right to an opinion about himself and Misha than anybody else does:

"Look, I know how it might look to other people, but we're not having some torrid affair, okay? …I mean, for one thing, Jared would probably want in on a threesome, but I wouldn't cheat on him. And Misha wouldn't try to take advantage of the situation like that — he's sort of quirky, but he's not a rapist or anything, you know? And like… he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't do it to anybody, but he especially wouldn't do it to me. He's not like that."

"And apparently, you're not, like… a smart person?" She'd almost sound like her normal self, except for that edge that sneaks in — which, in turn, should be some kind of warning… But Jensen still whines when she jabs her finger into his collarbone. And whines again when she stabs it at his stomach. And, even then, doesn't expect it when she thwaps him on the back of the head. "Jensen, wake the fuck up and smell the coffee — it's blacker than Hell, like Misha likes it, and it's _crammed full_ of serotonin, dopamine, phenylethylamine, and oxy-fucking-tocin!"

In some vague way, Jensen wants to give Danneel some snarky retort, but all he manages is furrowing his brow. Blinking down at her. Admitting: "I have no idea what those words mean. …and isn't oxytocin that Vicodin-thing that Rush Limbaugh went to rehab for?"

Danneel sighs, rolls her eyes, and probably without meaning to, manages to make Jensen feel like he's sitting in the corner, wearing a dunce cap. "They're some of the chemicals associated with the biological basis of love, artist boy," she says in a tone that does nothing to help how Jensen's wondering if he's the dumbest kid in the class. "Also, you're thinking of Oxycontin. They're _different_."

"Well, excuse me for wanting to draw comics for a living instead of studying neuroscience!" _And fuck you for getting all science-y on me without telling me that you planned on doing it, first._ "Besides… you're full of shit, you know that? Totally full of shit."

"Actually, I'm full of… two jello shots, a couple glasses of non-alcoholic punch, a margarita, and one of Vicki's Mai-Tais." Danneel smirks. All Jensen wants to do is scream at her that she's supposed to be on his fucking side and what the Hell kind of cousin _is_ she. Especially for getting the nerve to be all show-y about her intelligence without being drunk enough to tune out the neuroses Aunt Mary drilled into her head. "But that's just semantics, Jenny. You were saying?"

"I was saying that you're full of shit… and booze, too, I guess," he goes on. "Because… we're not in love or anything. And I can be gay and Misha can be bi and that doesn't mean that we're, like, just waiting to jump each other's bones or something. We _can_ be just friends."

"Well, I think you just don't want to believe it because that'd mean admitting that people other than Jared find you attractive."

Jensen's cheeks flush again. He can actually picture how pink they must look from the feeling of heat rushing onto them. And he folds his arms across his chest, shuffles his feet, adjusts the angle at which he's leaning on the counter… Trying to think of anything he can say to that… He gives up and mumbles, "I find… I know people other than Jared find me attractive, Dani."

"Of course you do," she fake-coos. Sarcasm's dripping off her tongue. Might as well be cutting a slimy trail down Jensen's cheek — not entirely helped when she reaches over and pokes his belly again, like it's her newfound mission in life to make him regret going shirtless. "Trust me, Jenny: I _know_ you, and I _know_ that you don't want to believe other people find you attractive. It's actually kind of romantic, in a depressing, sort of fucked in the head way."

He wrinkles his nose, frowns at her. "The fuck what is that supposed to mean?"

And, of course, all she does is shrug — she wants to go and have all kinds of purportedly deep thoughts about his psyche, and then she's just going to shrug. "Well, it's pretty sweet, the way you don't want to look at any other option but Jared… It's just also sort of fucked in the head because you do it by telling yourself that nobody else would want you, so there _is_ no other option — which, you don't have to talk to _me_ about it, Jenny? Not if you don't want to? But you should really talk to somebody because it could lead to all sorts of fucked up stuff down the road, if you don't like. Start examining it. …You could even talk to Shepp and it'd be an improvement on talking to nobody."

"Talking to Shepp about my problems is only an improvement on, like… talking to a _rock_ ," Jensen says and huffs. Silently tries to reassure himself that Danneel's just making shit up, and she's just going a little crazy or something, probably doing her overprotective cousin, 'nobody fucks with Jensen but ME, not even Jensen is allowed to fuck with Jensen' thing. And through it all, even as he tries to meet her overly discerning glare, he can't shake the nagging sensation in the back of his head that she might have a point.

So he does the natural thing and bury it in a scathing criticism of Shepp's idea of 'helping people': "I mean, seriously… Sure, the guy's smart and he's had some moments, but honestly? I can't tell if he does his thing with Misha — his meeting to sometimes play Misha's Doctor Freud thing, I mean, not like… not like they're having all, 'we're friends and we used to date, so let's just fuck around with each other' sex or anything, Misha's not a whore like that — but, like. Whatever it is they're doing, sometimes I can't tell if he's doing it because he's legitimately concerned about how Misha won't actually go see a shrink, or if he's doing it because he's just kind of a jack-ass and thinks he's qualified to do anything because he handled deflowering Misha."

Danneel turns from her brewing again and gives Jensen another Pointed Glance, mirroring his posture, one hip cocked out and both arms folded under her boobs. And she doesn't say anything, but Jensen gets the message: _most guys don't know these kinds of things when they're just best friends with someone_. So he jumps right back into covering his own ass: "Look, it was a big deal for him in freshman year, okay?"

"Maybe he's not a _literal_ whore, but Jenny… come on. He gets off on acting like a slut sometimes."

"You didn't live with him first semester, okay? You don't know what he was like then." — And maybe, Jensen considers, most guys don't get so defensive about people they're just best friends with… but Dani's going on and saying all kinds of shit that she shouldn't be talking about, and it's even worse that she's saying it about Misha. _Jensen's_ Misha. Misha who is Jensen's best friend and, dammit, Jensen doesn't care if he's being overly defensive because no one's allowed to just say shit like this about Misha where he can hear them do it. Or at all. But mostly where Jensen can hear them do it, since he wants to be (hypothetically) able to do something.

Groaning, he knocks his head back against the nearest cabinet — which, he reminds himself, isn't a good thing. Not least since he keeps telling Misha not to do it. "I mean, yeah, sure. He was eccentric in freshman year too," Jensen says with a sigh, and with a pressing desire to know if he sounds as stupid as he feels right now. "Like, when I say, 'eccentric,' I mean, 'we first really got to like each other because we got smashed while playing Mario Kart and he told me about how he spent one summer in high school trying to convince his parents that he'd joined a cult straight out of HP Lovecraft'."

"I know that already, Cranky." Danneel snickers and pinches at Jensen's cheek — and he frowns at her, not just because not even Jared and Great Aunt Elta are allowed to pinch his cheeks, but also because Danneel really shouldn't know that story. "Vicki told me first," she explains, "and then Aunt Donna did when she got all… pumping me for information about why your Frosh Fifteen were a little more than fifteen."

He huffs and tightens the hold he has on himself. "So I'm not even trying to say he wasn't _weird_. He was totally weird. He's _stayed_ totally weird… but I swear to God, Misha was a lot shyer in first year, okay? He didn't try so hard to hide that sweet thing he can do. And, like… Vicki and I had to drag him to the first LGBTQ Alliance meeting of the year because he had this… totally bug-fuck notion that everyone would hate him, and it'd get back to his mom and then she'd disown him, and _you don't know Misha_ like I do, okay, Dani? He's got a lot of layers. He hides a lot of things and he cares, like, way too much what people think of him. Which just makes him hide things more. And losing his V-card was a big deal for him — he seriously thought I might not be his friend anymore if I knew he was a virgin, and then he was all anxious because he and Shepp were pretty honest about the, 'I really like you, I think you're cool, but this isn't love' thing they did, and was he a slut if he lost it to some guy he didn't love, and—"

"And one of his layers is utterly, totally in love with you, okay?"

"And one of _your_ layers is utterly, totally fucking psycho, Dani, _okaaaay_?"

"Look, Jenny: like recognizes like and I have layers like a fucking cake — maybe I don't know all of what's going on in that wormy little brain of his, but I know one thing for sure. He's. in love. with _you_."

"Just because he's been single for a while since Genevieve doesn't mean jack squat."

"Are you _seriously_ this stupid, Ackles?"

Maybe, Jensen thinks, he should've paid more attention to Danneel's movements while he was rambling, because now she's all up in his space, pressing her own flat, toned stomach into the soft flesh of his, standing on her tiptoes to get closer to his face, holding eye-contact… If they weren't cousins and Jensen weren't gay, this would probably go somewhere way inappropriate. And maybe the fact that they _are_ cousins just makes their current position a million times worse… At least, all Danneel does is poke him in the collarbone again, punctuating each word with a hard jab of her finger.

"You. are. so. fucking. thick. headed. some. times. _Jensen_!" Her brown eyes smolder at him, as if to suggest that she's going to set him on fucking fire if he keeps up… whatever it is he's doing. "And, like, I could get it when you were skinny because you hated that so much, but—" The poking starts up again… "you. are. so. much. more. confident. now. so. how. the. fuck. are. you. still. totally. fucking. blind. to. your. appeal. as. a. _partner_!"

Jensen tries to answer that question, but mostly he ends up staring at the floor and mumbling something so incoherently that even he has no idea what he said.

And Danneel _sighs_ — it's her _run, bitch: I'm a very much aggrieved bull and you're wearing a red velour jumpsuit_ sigh — the one she usually saves for cussing out people who drive badly in her presence. "Look, you cannot tell him that I told you this," she says as though admitting some dirty (and possibly illegal) secret. "Because, technically? I'm probably not supposed to know? Like that BS with his fat guy kink thing and how he doesn't like people knowing? …but Vicki told me, and well, she's Vicki, so I trust her, and _she_ says that Misha's so head-over-heels for you that he can't tell which way is up."

And, _technically_? Jensen supposes that he's giving Dani's argument some ammunition — because he hears the earnest way she lowers her voice. He feels the way her next move to poke him is horridly limp, and the way it gives way to her splaying her hand on his chest, resting her fingers on his shoulder. He looks down at her eyes, and at the way they're not quite misting over, but still begging him to just take her word on things — and he doesn't _want_ to believe her.

…But there was that moment, when he walked in on Misha. And he thought Misha meant _Genevieve_ , but… Jensen. Genevieve. Jen. Gen. They're pronounced the same, and — Jensen shakes his head. Cuts that train of thought right off before it can get too far. "Misha wouldn't do anything crazy like — not _that_ crazy, I mean… He knows that me and Jay are… He knows that we're…"

"Just because he's not acting on his feelings doesn't mean he doesn't _have_ them, Jenny." Danneel gives him A Very Serious Look, and it seems like she's going to say something else — but thank God, Jensen's stomach goes and growls. Letting her face fall into a more tender expression, Danneel rocks back down to her flat feet and only holds Jensen's gaze for a moment before wrapping him in a rib-crushing hug.

It's sort of weird — they hug all the time, but she feels especially tiny in his arms tonight. And she nuzzles at his chest, rests her head there… and before he can ask if she's feeling guilty, she says, "Sounds like Meesh fell down on the job of keeping you fed today, huh? …I made brownies earlier. And they're the peanut butter M&M ones that you like… you want some, honey?"

Maybe he should be more pissed off at her for… some fucking reason or another. And maybe she still deserves to get called out on how much she's assuming about Misha… but brownies, Jensen can't deny, sound a-fucking-mazing right now. So he just nuzzles back and whispers, "Best. cousin. ever. …You are that. Just saying."

 

So they end up sitting around Dani's kitchen table… She goes through a fair few cups of her concoction while Jensen packs away brownies without bothering to count how many… Misha, were he here to chime in, would probably say that Jensen should keep track of what he's eating, but… eh. Fuck keeping perfect track of things. Jensen's hungry and the brownies do their job of making him stop feeling like he hasn't eaten since breakfast.

And he wouldn't really be able to keep track of things anyway, once a chat about how Dani's getting on with Gen turns into her monologuing at him: "I was really judgmental before, I know it and I know you forgave me for it, but… first of all, I was wrong. So, so wrong. …I mean, I'm still not really sure that I'm as into it as you and Jay are, but Genevieve… like, I can't even imagine being with her if she looked any different. She's gorgeous either way, but she's just so much more confident than she was then. And happier.

"And that's sort of my second point, because… I can tell you're really happy, Jenny. You're so, so happy, and it's beautiful, because you're beautiful anyway — on the inside, like, I mean? And on the outside too, but on the inside more, because it's more important, right? Right. Of course it is. And then, like… I. Iiiiiiii… I really love you, cousin. I do. And I love how much you smile with Jared, and your dorky little freckles, and how _happy_ you aaaaare. Looking like you look, and doing what you do with Jared… And as long as you're happy and taking care of yourself so you don't drop dead or anything… that's all I want, okaaaaay, baby?"

She totally rehearsed this speech — as she rabbits on and rattles off, Jensen can see her face lining itself and the way her brow furrows as she tries to remember everything she wants to say. But he can't even bring himself to care because of how fucking drunk she is — well past the point of being intoxicated enough to let herself act smart, she's off into 'totally shit-faced' territory. The booze stench is reeking off her, sinking into every word she says… No amount of rehearsal could make her sound eloquent right now.

And, apparently, no amount of self-restraint can keep her from declaring that it's nap-time and putting her head down on the table, resting her forehead on her arms. Or from following that with a bunch of sleepy mumblings about how much she loves Jensen. She's more than a little out-of-sorts, sure, but… would it really kill her to react when someone comes up and hugs Jensen from behind? Or when they start nuzzling at his neck in an unsettlingly familiar fashion for someone who's unidentified and, much like Danneel, stinks like alcohol?

And, naturally, Jensen intends for 'react' here to mean, 'by doing something other than snoring.'

"What's wrong with her…?" — Jensen breathes a sigh of relief. Thank God, it's just Misha… so Jensen explains that Danneel's drunk, and Misha just hugs him tighter. "Me too, Jenny."

"Yeah, I can tell," Jensen deadpans. "You smell like Dani's jello shots. …with a distinct after-burn of sex."

"Yeah, well… Jeff and I fucked in James and Mikey's bed. It was crazy. Fun, but crazy… y'know, it's been way too long since I fucked without feelings being involved? He was all, like… having to remind me of everything and how it's not like an emotional thing… I think I got a little messy-ish or something… I dunno, let's go hoooooome."

"…I was just joking, Meesh." Seriously, though… there's nothing on Misha that really stinks like sex. Just alcohol and the increasing suspicion that Jensen might get pulled into a cuddle and end up watching over Misha if/when he pukes in the morning.

"I wasn't," Misha informs him, tightening his hold on Jensen's shoulders, slumping against him rather heavily. "Jeff and I totally fucked in James and Mikey's bed… I should like, feel guilty for that right? …because I doooon't. Because they were being dicks earlier and they were all, 'oh my god, your-slash-Jensen's-slash-Jared's kink offends our delicate and pretty sensibilities and what even are you doing, why would you let him out of the house without a shiiiiiirt, ew ew ewwwww' …Douchebags. I hope I got jizz all over their expensive fucking sheets." Misha pauses for a moment, leans in closer and hisses right into Jensen's ear, " _They sleep on silk, Jenny_. At least. High thread-count Egyptian cotton that totally _feels_ like silk. …is it in poor taste for me to tell them to stop being so stereotypical? I feel like it kind of is since I'm only half-gay, but dammiiiiiiit, I wanna tell them to stop being so _stereotypical_ …"

Jensen wants to point out that Misha was doing the stereotypical thing earlier, with his whole, 'what kind of gay boy _are_ you, Ackles?' speech… but it's sort of a moot point while Misha's drunk, he figures. And patting Misha's forearm, fumbling around in an attempt to tousle his hair, Jensen says, "maybe you can talk to them once you're sober, Meesh. How about we just go home for now?"

"Perfect idea is perfect," Misha says, nodding and, in so doing, nuzzling against Jensen's neck. "And we should probably tell Gen or Vicki to come clean Danneel up…"

Misha's right, of course. And on their way out, Jensen takes his advice, tells Genevieve that Danneel's passed out on the table and she should probably look into it… But Jensen doesn't leave without pranking her a little first. Just since Misha's too drunk to disagree and since Danneel, however much Jensen loves her, still ran her mouth off about shit she doesn't really understand.

Besides, the marker's washable (one of the Crayola numbers that Misha finds on the kitchen counter, lost among some liquor bottles and Dani's baking supplies), so Danneel won't have to be stuck with her punishment for too long, unless she wants to keep it around. And, anyway, Jensen draws her curlicue mustache on in pink, so… chances are she'll probably enjoy it when she sobers up. At the very least, she'll probably think it's funny.


	12. Jello Shots And Skin Mags.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Danneel is still having a Halloween party, Misha's not really enjoying himself that much. Also, he hates two of his sister's three housemates, but McFassy don't exactly go out of their way to make him like them, either.

Misha doesn't hate parties — on the contrary, he's rather fond of them, under most normal circumstances. Sure, he prefers smaller gatherings to the kinds of shindigs Danneel likes to throw. Having fewer people around means Misha has more room to breathe, more potential personal space that he can insist upon, fewer people to look at and wonder, _Are they staring at me? What kind of fucking facial expression was that? I don't even really know that guy, why is he looking at me like I just decapitated the Queen of England and let her bleed out all over his expensive rug?_

But Misha doesn't _hate_ parties. It's just that... he's anxious tonight. No matter where he goes, his skin's crawling. He feels sick. Thick in the head — like he's underwater and he can't move right. Never mind how he feels about his waist… His stupid, pudgy waist. The way it's gone and _really_ started getting soft on him, turning into a belly, as much as Jensen tries to tell him otherwise. Even with most of his body hidden in a lab-coat, Misha just wants to find some way, _any_ way, to blend in with the wallpaper, or go the entire night without anyone paying him any mind. Vicki could be an exception, and Jensen, and maybe Genevieve if she's not planning to get too drunk… Sure, she's an adorable drunk, but the need to get out of his own head means Misha really can't babysit anyone else.

He's getting so fucking fat, he probably can't even get drunk anymore, he thinks, sighing forlornly and slumping into a wall by the kitchen. For the briefest flash of a moment, Misha reminds himself that this is _stupid_ — that he is _being stupid_ — and that there's no way the weight he's put on will completely keep him from getting wasted, if he wants that to happen. Yesterday morning, he checked in at one-ninety — more than before, he's starting to show the gain, and he hates that phrasing of it. Makes him sound like some excited pregnant lady, which in turn makes him long for the days a few weeks ago when, instead of being possessed by some bipolar expectant mother, he was possessed by a deranged teenage girl.

Sure, being chubbier than he's been in a while means that he has more mass, which means he'll need more booze to actually get hammered. But he can still get drunk. He knows he can. And he's going to get drunk, if only because there's no way he can survive this party sober… Sobriety means wondering what everyone's thinking about him. Glancing around, picking faces out of the crowd, and trying to guess what their thoughts are — and all of these thoughts end up somewhere in the vein of, _God, Misha's really letting himself go… He used to be so thin, too, I mean, people wanted to have that body… And does he actually think that there's any chance of him fooling us? Sure, Misha, yeah. Wear that lab-coat and try to act like you haven't gotten fat_ …

Right off the bat, Misha hits Dani's jello shots and throws two of them back without stopping to think, beyond mustering the coordination he needs to not spill them on his costume. He went through a lot of trouble, sneaking into the labs to steal this coat; he can't get it stained up, especially not with freaking neon green jello. The kitchen has a city skyline of liquor bottles lined up against the wall and, vaguely, Misha supposes that he should find Danneel or his sister and ask which drinks are open for consumption… but instead, he goes at a bottle of coconut-flavored rum. Starts throwing it back in glassfuls that he just _knows_ are well above the suggested serving size. And chasing them, usually, with jello shots or with the occasional sip of water.

There's been too much time between now and the last time Misha got drunk. They've got more then enough liquor back at his and Jensen's place, not to mention the beer (though Misha would have to be hard-up before he'd touch that swill). But the Laws of Responsibility dictate that Misha's not allowed to get shit-faced that often, just because he has students to deal with, and papers to grade, and classes to teach… And, even so, even considering his burgeoning weight problem, he'd gladly ignore the Hell out of alcohol's empty calories just to drown himself in booze every weekend. Except that Jensen keeps him from doing it. And Jensen has to remind him that this would be an incredibly irresponsible means of handling his problems. And Jensen just has to be right.

_Jensen_ … Misha glares at the fucker as he sulks out of the kitchen, holding a huge plastic cup of mango rum. Best friend or not, Misha wants to growl at Jensen for dragging him here. For daring to have fun, for sitting over on the sofa with Misha's fucking sister and smiling and not being totally miserable — _look at him and Vicki, just laughing like everything's al-fucking-right… What the Hell even do they know?_ …and this makes Misha a shitty best friend. Taking a long sip out of his cup, Misha's sure of this. There's really no other word for a best friend who wishes suffering on the guy he's supposed to like better than anyone else.

Moreover, on the guy he's been hopelessly crushing on since way the fuck too long… Misha grumbles into his rum, turns his gaze to the floor, just tries to think about something else. Anything else. Anything that doesn't involve how he should've talked Jensen into wearing a goddamn shirt — _what the fuck kind of Halloween costume is, 'porno mag model' anyway? I bet he just didn't want to put any effort into it…_

And it's not fair for Jensen to just be sitting there. Shirtless. So close, physically, and yet so completely unattainable because of his boyfriend, because Misha can't just stop being respectful or thinking that the best course of action here is to love Jensen by letting him go. Or, for the moment, to love him by hating how he's all reclining on the sofa. Showing off the combined work that Misha and Jared have done on him, on his body, like it's totally nothing… _That goddamn vest doesn't even fit him right_ , Misha thinks with a grimace.

And since no one's here to pry into his thoughts and tell him that, maybe, he's being a little excessive, Misha hangs onto that thought without fear of being criticized or told that he's just jealous.

In a vague, distant sort of way, Misha realizes that someone would be right to criticize him. That, yes, Jensen picked that vest out for a reason — namely, because it's so damn tiny on him — and that, of course, even if it _were_ the right size, the style is meant to be tight… but he still lets himself think that Jensen looks ridiculous. That way makes it easier to ignore the sexual frustration, the urge to go assault Jensen's mouth and resolve the unresolved _thing_ that's hanging between them and that Jensen apparently can't discern to save his life. He suspects that Jensen could be wearing a burlap sack and it wouldn't matter — he'd still be staring, still be wondering what it feels like to be with Jensen, to have his body pressing down on Misha's own…

Either way, Misha would end up exactly where he is now: watching on while Jensen _attacks_ a fourth slice of pizza, focusing far too much on how there's no hope at all of doing up Jensen's buttons, how the way the fabric falls accentuates the sloping curve of his middle… And, either way, Misha would know that he can't do anything about his feelings, save mull them over and try to drown them in liquor. And that he'd still get more of a burn from his own jealousy than from the alcohol.

It's not like he means to be envious; it just kind of happens. He doesn't understand how Jensen can look so good, with all the weight that he's added to his frame — with his gut making him look like he swallowed a whole watermelon, at least until one touches it, finds all the soft, yielding rolls that try to hide underneath the bloated facade. With the way pounds upon pounds of flab accumulate around his hips, make them curve out like his stomach does. With the way his love-handles look so welcoming, as though they're begging Misha to come over and grab onto them, calling to him from across the room — the Sirens to his Odysseus, except he doesn't have any makeshift earplugs to get out of hearing them.

Not that Misha _questions_ Jensen's physical attractiveness. Not that he even _wants_ to — but Jensen's been weighing in at two-sixty pretty consistently this week. His stomach's bigger, softer. His hugs are tighter, fiercer, warmer, just because he has more weight to throw into them. He smiles brighter than ever, with deep little dimples that dig into his cheeks and a vivacious spark behind those green eyes — even his freckles somehow seem cuter with the way his cheeks get softer, the way his double chin gets more pronounced. And Misha knows that makes no fucking sense. There's no way the weight gain can do anything to Jensen's freckles or how they look…

It's just that Misha's _fuck-all jealous_. He hates himself for it, but it's true: while Jensen's getting bigger, he looks all the more gorgeous. It's not that his old physique is melting away into the new one; it's that his body's running out of room to store how beautiful he is… or some other metaphor. One that makes sense and doesn't involve making Misha sound like some doped up, lovesick thirteen-year-old — drunk or not, there's seriously no excuse for him to get this way. He likes being able to pretend he has some kind of fucking dignity. At least enough of it that he can accurately claim he doesn't fuck around with this maudlin romance novel shit.

Which should be easier to avoid… but it's not. Not when the usual (that is, lustful) way that Misha's chest burns when he looks at Jensen is getting twisted and up and tainted by _envy_. By the increasingly powerful urge to just scream at his best friend for being _so fucking pretty_. For not looking ugly with a double-chin, or with his love-handles, his expanding ass, his clothes always tightening around him, even when the _numbers_ on the scale don't go up that much, as they haven't this month…

It's not _fair_ — Misha hates how petulant he sounds, just thinking this, but… well. It's _not_ fair. Anyone he knows who's gained weight still looks good — in some cases (Jensen's, Genevieve's, Katherine's…), they even look better. But all Misha sees in his reflection disgusts him anymore. By some miracle, Misha's face still hasn't changed much. He hopes — _needs_ — for things to stay that way… Assuming he still won't have lost any weight by the time Thanksgiving comes around, much less lost all the weight that's wormed its way onto his body, he'll need something to help dupe Mom into thinking that he's not _fat_ , just a little softer than when she saw him last.

And Lord knows that the rest of Misha's body won't be helping him any. All the purported gain that hadn't materialized much of anywhere? It's shown up, officially. Made itself perfectly at home, and done so mostly around Misha's stomach — there's no way he can even _fake_ the, 'I've just missed a few sessions at the gym' excuse anymore… Maybe it worked when his waistline was _soft_ and a bit _pudgy_ , but Misha's spent the past two weeks wearing Jensen's jeans. His middle's pushing thirty-six inches, as of yesterday.

In his mind, he might as well already be there, or even worse off — the only reason he didn't write _36"_ in his personal log is that Jensen had to take the measurement. After weighing himself, Misha found his hands trembling too much to hold the tape measure still… and once they had a number — _"Thirty-five-and-a-half-ish, Meesh… That's rounding up a little, but it's the one that looks closest, I guess?"_ — Jensen insisted on reminding Misha that no, really, he didn't need to round up to the nearest integer, not least since Jensen had already rounded up in saying thirty-five-and-a-half. As has become his habit, Misha knows that, on some level, he's being ridiculous. He pauses to remind himself of this so many times a day that he's given up on counting.

The simple fact of the matter, though, is that his belly might not be _enormous_ … but it's palpable and that's enough to send Misha into all kinds of tizzies. There's no more idle prodding at it and thanking the Flying Spaghetti Monster that at least it's just a _little_ soft, not even a real belly, more of a _tummy_ than anything. No, no… Misha can actually get his hands on his stomach now. It protrudes — even now, Misha can swear that he feels it sticking out and rubbing up on his lab-coat, and that feeling doesn't go away when he tries to suck his gut in. This might be fine (or tolerable, anyway), if he'd been eating enough to get so bloated, or if his body would just cooperate with his diet already, or if, failing the second option, the rest of him would hurry up and explode so he wouldn't feel so goddamn unbalanced… but none of these things are true. The most he gets for his hopes and his efforts is a thickening waistline, the smallest bit of jiggle to his thighs, and ending every day hungry with nothing to show for it but — he shudders to think — a starter pot-belly.

For the most part, his sweaters from Grandma Krushnic hide his stomach. She keeps making them for some mental image of a butterball grandson who likes baggy clothes and getting his fat little fingers all covered in sugar and fondant and cake batter. Even though Misha's been skinny pretty reliably for the past six, seven-ish, years. Sometimes, the size of her sweaters has worked against him. _Sometimes_ , it's made Jensen or Vicki decide that Misha looks like he's about to collapse or something, then sit him down on the sofa and refuse to let him go do _anything_.

…but their bagginess is working in Misha's favor, these days. Especially since his waistline's decided to balloon out and start _looking_ like what the scale advertises. They can't make the weight actually come off him, but Misha's sweaters have done a good job of keeping people from picking up on its presence. So he can forgive the things for getting in the way of his happiness before, he guesses.

And the sad thing is: he knows this kind of thinking is fucked up. That it's all kinds of fucked up, even. Potentially bad for him. And not exactly safe, given his history. Not to mention vaguely worrisome to the people who care about him. It'd be even worse if any of them knew the sort of mental loops that he's been playing for himself since his weight first went over 170, the ones he's repeated so much more often these days — _Don't look at the food, Misha. Don't look at it. If you look at it, you'll want to eat it. If you want to eat it, you probably will. And you can't spare that. You need to keep better track of your calories, Jesus Christ… It's probably time for some kind of snack, but only so you don't end up bingeing when you get home and have to make dinner. It's Jensen who's supposed to be getting fat. Not you. Remember that, Tubby? Huh, do you?_

And that's saying nothing about the worst part. Namely: the part where Misha hasn't weighed so much since the last few weeks that he and Richard spent together. The part where trying not to remember this just makes it that much clearer in Misha's mind. The part where he's spent the past three or four days thinking about Richard on and off, which doesn't help him at _all_ with his attempts to diet…

Shepp's not here yet (if he plans to come at all) and, in the back of his mind, Misha can hear him trying to psychoanalyze this kink of his (plus the accompanying double-standard), sounding like some cheap self-help book or a newspaper horoscope in the process.

_You want to be more rebellious, but there's something blocking you from acting on that desire…_ says the Shepp in Misha's imagination, lurking and getting his toast-dry tone and his London-bred accent right, which is probably some kind of achievement. _Some sense of obligations to Lord only knows what is keeping you from really breaking all the rules, the way you WANT to… You can act eccentric. You ARE eccentric. But there's still some underlying logic to everything you do, some respect for SOME kind of rule, so we're stuck with this present state of affairs: you've got a fancy for things that don't fit into commonly accepted paradigms because that's the way you challenge things._

_You're into submission because you take charge of so much, and because you're a control freak, and because everyone and their mother's three-legged dog thinks you want to be so outrageously dominant. You're so take-no-prisoners open about your bisexuality because so many people are ignorant about it and you feel like you can't just call them out or tell them to fuck off. And you're into a partner with some extra weight because one of the rules-sets you're so fixated on is the one about what body types are socially acceptable._

_Skinny people, athletic bodies, girls with that… ridiculous thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six hourglass shape — you appreciate them as people, but they play by the rules. As far as you're concerned, they're complicit in keeping those rules alive and well by **being** thin and shapely and conventionally attractive… and you just can't stand that. Can't stand to think that you could be — or just let yourself be — attracted to someone who does that. Even though you **know** that there's probably not a lot of ways for them to knowingly be doing that. It's the extremist in you: you don't want to seem indecisive, so you over-commit yourself one way or another._

And there are really only three words for that — for the sheer fact that Misha can be standing here, leaning against Danneel's wall and getting smashed, feeling alone in a room full of people, and that he can pull out some doctoral thesis about his own psychology. About, of all things, his fucking sexual proclivities. And the three words to describe this situation are simply: _**fuck. my. life.**_

Despite knowing not to go knocking his head into anything at any kind of velocity, Misha bangs the back of his skull against the wall and silently curses _every-fucking-thing in the entire fucking world_. Curses Shepp (for his ridiculous ability to pick Misha apart with such deadly accuracy), curses Jensen (for dragging Misha out against his will and having the gall to keep being sexy), curses Gen and Vicki (for looking like they're having fun, instead of coming over here and making Misha feel less alone), curses Captain Morgan (for being fictional when, god dammit, Misha wants to knock his teeth in for daring to have such delicious rum) — and as he sips at his drink, Misha catches himself doing this.

Reminds himself that there's no reason he should be so frustrated over anything. Because this is just a party, nothing serious, and it's not as though he can expect people to be sensitive to his needs if he doesn't _share_ them… God, it's like actually having Shepp around to explain Misha's Capital-I Issues for him.

Which just serves as a reminder of how long it's been since Misha sat down with Shepp for some one-on-one 'counseling,' if coffee with an ex-boyfriend and listening to Misha bitch for an hour-and-a-half can really be called, 'counseling.' Which makes Misha want to text the son of a bitch and ask if he's bothering to come out tonight, since the party's boring, and depressing, and Misha's _lonely_ … He tells himself that this message wouldn't mention any kind of sexual propositions, or list off anything they could do with one of the house's bedrooms… But he's still aware of how he might as well just ask Shepp for a booty call.

And the fact that he's actually considering a hook-up with Shepp just drives Misha to finish off his rum so much faster. To, as best as he can, ignore the burn in the back of his throat — he doesn't even notice it until the alcohol kicks at him, makes him cough and feel like he's choking. The start of some panic sets in at the thought of how fucked he has to be, in general, to think about fucking Shepp tonight… As he peers at the bottom of his cup, Misha feels his lungs start twisting, his breaths come in hiccup-y fits and starts instead of in a smooth pattern. His next move is to go and grab a refill on his rum. And to skip over having a glass of water, even though he knows it'd be responsible to go with that plan.

Water gets in the way of getting hammered, and thus, it's like inviting himself to keep feeling ill-at-ease. As punishment for even considering responsibility, Misha throws back his refill at warp-ten, chugs it like he's auditioning for _National Lampoon's Animal House: The Musical!_ — then gets another refill. Mutters to himself that there's no way he can just let all this mango rum go to waste — "Pretend it's vitamins or something and drink up," he huffs, slumping back into his place on the wall outside the kitchen.

By the time he feels someone's hand grip onto his shoulder, Misha's finally feeling woozy — the warm, flushed kind of woozy that he's been unable to get his hands on because those fucking Laws Of Responsibility say he can't. He's leaning on the wall more for support now, rather than because it's what you're supposed to do when you're pouting and sulking and being a total downer.

And without bothering to look at who's decided to invade his personal space (but assuming that it's probably Vicki), he starts rattling off a bunch of nonsense: "There's nothing going on — I mean, I. Er. I wasn't staring at him — or at anybody! I wasn't staring at _anybody_ — that is to say… I didn't approve or disapprove or whatever the fuck Jensen's costume or anything… He did that without me, or my input, or…"

Staring up at a face that is definitely _not_ his sister's, Misha trails off and whispers, " _fuck_."

Instead of finding someone he considers friendly, Misha glances up into the blue-green eyes, tousled hair, and gingery-red scruff one of the other people who rent this place — incidentally, the one who Misha likes the second-least. _Michael_. Tall, sculpted like some warrior out of Ancient Sparta, irritating douche-bag Michael, who's taken it upon himself to smile so broadly that every single one of his oversized teeth is showing itself off. And, to make matters worse, Misha turns his head just a little bit, only intending to look at the floor rather than holding eye contact with this six-three, self-righteous dick…

And instead of getting a reprieve, Misha finds himself met with the icicle-cool gaze of Michael's boyfriend, James. Who is thin, and lean, and piteously short-looking next to his man — James stands at exactly Richard's height, if Misha remembers correctly, and out of a sheer desire not to think about Richard, Misha hopes to God that his memory's faulty. 

He's just been babbling — half-incoherently, like an idiot, and probably on the verge of swallowing his tongue — at the worst possible people. "You heard absolutely nothing," he snaps at them, because Misha Dimitri Collins will be _fucked_ if he lets these bastards think they're winning.

Apparently, this is hilarious — but not enough for them to do more than snicker. In unison. Like the leash hanging off of Michael's O-ring collar forms some kind of psychic link between them… And Misha's supposed to be the creepy one. Once they've quieted down some, James takes over speaking for both of them: "Well, we were planning on trying to be _polite_ hosts—"

"You're not hosting anything. Danneel is. It's her party — she made the Facebook event and everything." This logic, Misha thinks, is absolutely infallible. He knows, distantly, that this probably has more than a little bit to do with all the rum in his bloodstream. And the fact that he hasn't eaten since lunch probably isn't helping him keep his head.

Maybe he should've had some pizza or one of Dani's brownies in between drinks — _God, she probably added an entire case of baking chocolate to them, though… This diet's already going to Hell in a hand-basket, I can't even… I haven't even lost a pound… And she **would** have a fucking party without getting a veggie tray or something… I mean, obviously, Dani, everyone can **totally** eat topping-less pizza with dairy-free cheese just because your vegan friend can… Ugh, why can't I just have my appetite removed, every-fucking-thing ELSE in the human body can come out—_

"Feeling alright there, Flash?" Michael says, snapping Misha back around to reality. For a moment, he sounds earnest, but then the knife-edge smirk betrays the _total fucking dick_ lurking behind his 'oh, I'm so dapper and handsome and pretty and don't you want to trust me' act. _Jackass… I hope all your teeth fall out tonight and you choke to death on them_. Without asking permission (and thus eliciting a loud whine), Michael reaches over to ruffle Misha's hair. "You were dazing out there… looked like you were having an absence seizure… which means you should _really_ lay off the booze."

Despite having alcohol-dulled reflexes, Misha manages to yank his cup away before Michael can grab it. "I've never had a seizure _in my life_. Absence-flavored or otherwise," he huffs, somehow managing to sound half-sober. Maybe the universe is taking pity on his eternal sexual frustration or something. "Don't have a family history of epilepsy either, so…" Blowing a raspberry, very much aware of how immature this is and very much _not bothered_ , Misha flips the son of a bitch off. "What are you even doing here? Don't you two have a library to desecrate or something, anyway?"

"Awwww, Jimmy… I think little Misha's jealous of us. Probably of all the sex we get to have — oh, wait, I guess…" All too deftly, his fingers fall to the buttons of Misha's lab-coat. He doesn't even try that hard to find the ones that take the most strain in their attempts to stay fastened around Misha's stomach… And Misha tells himself to be brave, keep his eyes locked on Michael's. He tries to glare; judging from Michael's sneer, he probably comes out looking like an irritated kitten. The same way Misha _always_ comes out looking when he tries to threaten somebody.

And Michael slips the first button through its hole. Makes a clucking noise with his tongue to emphasize that motion, and makes the same noise for each subsequent button he undoes — until the lab-coat yields and opens up, leaving Misha exposed, giving the both of them a good, long glimpse of how tightly his t-shirt clings to his middle, every single one of his curves. Misha feels his cheeks flush, Vesuvius-hot and probably redder than a whole garden of tomatoes. Even before Michael's fingers tease at his hem, at the nearest bit of Misha's pudge, he wonders if they can tell that he's wearing a pair of Jensen's jeans — he tries to scoot away, mostly ends up backing into the wall and trying to go further, despite knowing that he can't just phase through solid matter, trying to melt into it.

And Michael goes the fuck on, slides his fingers under Misha's shirt — he smacks Misha's stomach and gets a jiggle out of it — makes Misha's flesh tremble as he toys with this newfound access to Misha's belly… Misha doesn't want to let it happen — _be cool, be cool, just keep your head and if he doesn't get a reaction, then maybe he'll go away…_ But it doesn't matter how much he tells himself not to go and fuck things up: Misha whines. When Michael splays his fucking enormous hand over Misha's middle, picks out exactly what Misha's been trying to hide… a stomach roll there, a bit of excess pudge there…

"I guess… little Misha's not so little anymore, is he?" he says with a snicker. "What happened here, Flash? You get into the Halloween candy?"

" _Nothing_ fucking happened," Misha snaps. He wraps his hand around Michael's wrist and tries to force him off — he tries not to think back to this morning, to the bright red _190_ that stared up at him on the scale's digital read-out. He tries (and fails) not to let himself think, _why am I even bothering? It's not like it's going anywhere, like anything's happening, this is so pointless, what the Hell…_ Misha just wants to focus on the lie he splutters out: "Maybe I — I might've put on a couple pounds this semester—"

"Oh, a _couple_?" Michael snickers again, leers at Misha and , flashing his predatory teeth, a manic ghost flashing across his eyes. He squeezes on Misha's tummy again — _God, I need to stop using that word, it's too cute and adorable for what's really going on here. My flab is not fucking **cute**_ … Despite himself, Misha whines again. Which just makes Michael push his fingers that much harder into Misha's flesh, humming like he's appraising something serious. Something like the probability of the Large Hadron Collider unmaking existence as everybody knows it.

"Well, I'm hardly a _doctor_ ," Michael says, "but… if you want an opinion, Snoodles? It feels like you've let yourself go a little bit more than you've estimated."

"It's _five pounds_ at the most," Misha lies without thinking about it. _I am not fucking drunk enough for this._

And the worst part is that James is just _standing there_.

If James were half the dominant he thinks he is, Misha's certain that he'd put a stop to this jerk-ass behavior of his boyfriend's — he'd at least yank on that fucking leash to make a point — but he lets it slide, even laughs about it, since he, too, is a total. fucking. bag. of. dicks. When he stops laughing, he's still smirking, still looking like the fat cat in a canary cage. God, Misha wishes he could get away with shoving these guys off a cliff and into a pile of rusty, tetanus-encrusted nails and broken glass. But given his luck, they'd probably survive, ID him for the cops, and send him up the river for the rest of his natural-born life.

Or to a padded cell in the solitary confinement wing of a mental health facility. Which might actually be worse than prison, but would still be an improvement on having his ability to hide his body taken away, getting shoved back against a wall by some half-giant, snickering ginger-nut, who's apparently releasing his inner dominant urges all over Misha — leaving Misha squirming, reeling, wishing he were drunk enough to puke, since that would get Michael off of him — and wondering, through it all, _what the Hell did I even do to you, jerk?_

Even though he's had his insult, and presumably had his fun, Michael doesn't take his hand off Misha's stomach… It's like he's _trying_ to make Misha hyper-aware of what he already knows. Of how much chubbier he is, and how much bigger the rolls on his middle have gotten… Misha whines into his cup, chugs the rest of the rum for dear fucking life — _just get me out of here_ , he thinks. Hopes. Prays, despite the fact that any divine beings are probably ignoring him by now. _Just please, please, please get me out of here… I'll even take just THINKING I'm out of here…_

"You know, Misha, we understand it," James pipes up, while Michael lets go of Misha's tummy and takes hold of his developing love-handles instead. James has his best, 'I am a professional, sir, and you ought to respect me as such' voice on — some fucked up mixture of smarminess and false compassion. "This isn't at all meant to shame you or demean you — believe it or not, this is us coming to you in a gesture of friendship. Of… kinky people looking to support other kinky people."

Misha mumbles it into his cup, but he knows he's still audible when he says: "Okay, when the fuck did the entire fucking world learn that I have a vaguely socially unacceptable, totally body-conscious, most people would take one look at it and wonder who dropped me on my head as a child kind of kink? My real name _isn't_ on my fanfiction, I use a _different_ email address for all the posts I make about it, I avoid talking about it offline except with the people I date — _I cover my fucking tracks, you spying, wannabe secret agent dicks._ "

"Not well enough," Michael scoffs, and kneads his thumb into Misha's flesh — which feels too nice to protest, regardless of how much Misha _wants_ to do so. "Listen, sweetie: if you don't want people to know about what turns you on? It might behoove you not to talk about your kinks with Vicki, at full-volume, _in our kitchen_."

"Well, excuse me for not thinking, like… 'oh my sweet zombie Cthulhu Jesus, this is like… James and Michael's kitchen, too.'" Scrunching up his face, Misha tries to bat Michael off of him… which is about as effective as a kitten trying to punch the Incredible Hulk. "Just… _fucking_ … Can't you two like. Be direct with me and go away so I can keep hating you?" Perhaps a bit uncomfortably honest, but Misha honestly can't bring himself to care. He's drunk. He has an _excuse_.

James and Michael, on the other hand, are just in need of massive amounts of plastic surgery for their disgusting personalities. Like, for example, there's the way that James _siiiiiighs_ and _rolls his eyes_ and slouches ever-so-artfully, like he's just _so depressed_ about something… like maybe the Pretentious Dick-Weed Bookstore doesn't have anymore copies of some obscure Kierkegaard text, in its original Danish. God, Misha would punch him right in his obnoxiously perfect, orthodontically straightened, overly bleached teeth, if he weren't currently pinned to a wall by an enormous ginger shark-man.

"We haven't ever really done anything to you, Misha," James points out. And his calm seems kind of possibly real. Plausible. …No, wait. Believable — not plausible, that's the wrong word — but whatever the adjective, Misha's Drunk Senses are tingling, and he knows better than to trust it. "I just… I don't understand this hostility, I guess? Is there someone else who you're really upset with?"

_God, child, you don't even fucking want to know, okay? Who am I pissed off with? Let me count the names. There's Jensen and how he made me come here. There's Vicki and how she invites herself to my boss's office for lunch most days, just to tell me she doesn't think I'm eating enough. There's Gen and Danneel and how they're so stupidly happy together that I want to puke. There's Tall Mark, who's still inexplicably enamored with me when he knows I don't reciprocate. There's Shepp and his wonky mind-reading powers, there's Jensen again because he's a sexually frustrating son of a bitch, there's Jared because he hasn't done anything I can be mad at him for but he has everything I want, and I'm jealous so I don't fucking care, there's Vicki again because she thinks I'm back-sliding or whatever, so she doesn't trust me, there's my mom, there's myself… How about we just let me blow up the world and be done with it, okay? Also, I hate you and your mutant shark-boy because you suck. Isn't that reason enough?_

But Misha says none of this. He doesn't say anything, period. He just wrinkles his nose and huffs in James's general direction — and he about shits a brick when James tugs on Michael's leash and hisses for him to let Misha go. The shock's no better when Michael actually acquiesces. Takes his hand off of Misha's stomach and takes three steps back, leaving Misha pressed up against the wall of his own volition and wondering how he got there.

"So… there are possibly a lot of people you're upset with?" James hazards a guess, tilting his head, furrowing his brow in sympathy that's probably fake. When Misha says nothing, James sighs. "You know, self-isolating behavior is usually a sign of significant problems. Ones you might want to deal with. For your sister and your boyfriend, if not for yourself."

All Misha manages to do is gape at this slimy fucker. He _wants_ to close his mouth, at least. Just because the slack-jawed, saucer-eyed moron look is not one of his favorites, but — "What the Hell are you _talking_ about?" — Clearly missing the point, James launches into some cocked-up explanation about how everybody knows Misha's neurotic — shit, most of them are some kind of neurotic themselves, so it isn't as though they're judging him or anything — it's just that Misha usually seems to be worse off than everybody else, for reasons no one really knows because, James assumes, Misha plays them ridiculously close to the chest and he honestly doesn't blame Misha for that. He _knows_ that talking about Seriouts Things can be difficult—

"No, God — stop talking, you idiot!" Misha huffs, only barely resisting the urge to smack James upside his pretty, perfectly coiffed head. "No, no, I think… I think that I know better than everyone here that I have issues, Jimmy, okay?"

"Well, that was some unexpected honesty," Michael pipes up, smirking in some nauseating faux-innocence. In response to Misha's glare, he only shrugs. Chuckles a little. "I'm just saying, Meesh: you're not exactly Mister Upfront and Open about anything. Much less about anything serious."

"What the fuck do you know," Misha sighs. Groans. Knocks his head back into the wall — not enough to hurt, but enough to make him feel like he's doing something. "You can't talk like that… you don't _know me_ …"

Another shrug from Michael. "Maybe not, but I know your sister, and aren't twins supposed to be really similar?"

He has a point. Ish. At least in that Vicki's always been the person who most effortlessly understands Misha and whatever he thinks he's saying at any given time. But Michael's not allowed to be right. Michael can't even let himself think that he's right — so Misha blows another raspberry at him and does his very best shit-faced imitation of Michael's sneer. "We're _twins_ , not _clones_ , jack-off. …And even if we were clones, there's like. Liiiiike. …There's all kinds of theory-type things of personality development and nurture-y whatever and… stuff. So we wouldn't be the same fucking person. So you're wrong. Soooo…" Yet another raspberry, coupled with flipping Michael off again. "Go fuck off. Both of you, just… go fall off a glacier and die, I don't fucking care."

For a long moment, neither of Misha's unwanted conversation partners says anything. They trade a glance — looks like he's at least confused them — and James arches one of his eyebrows in… Maybe suspicion. Maybe casting judgment. Maybe it's just his version of a 'deer in the headlights' look — and then James sighs as though he's unloading an Atlas-level burden. "Right," he says with an equal amount of exasperation, "we probably shouldn't have attempted this while you're busy crawling into the bottom of a bottle."

"You think, Doctor Sherlock?" Misha snarks. He tries to take another drink, but finds his cup empty — _oh, right… right, I chugged it already…_

"What's your poison, Meesh?" James asks. And once Misha tells him about the mango rum, he continues: "Mikey, go and get Misha a refill. And a glass of water, if you don't mind. Let's keep the hypothetical emergency room visits to a minimum." — Michael does as he's asked, only pausing to take Misha's cup away and give James a kiss — and James leans back against the wall right next to Misha. Looking up at Misha with a half-smile. Wearing his 'no, really, you WANT to trust me; I will make you trust me; I'm just trying to help, you know' wannabe psychoanalyst smile. Misha suspects that punching him wouldn't end well. Best case scenario, he'd punch the wall and end up hurting himself, and they'd still have to go to the ER.

So he just glares — tries to, anyway; James doesn't react, much less in the cowed way that Misha wants him to react — and mutters that James is probably making a shitty call, giving him more alcohol. "'m probably already well past the legal point of intoxication, anyway, so you shouldn't—"

"You're drunk, yes," James says, examining his nails and ostensibly trying to clean something out from under them. "And yes, I certainly wouldn't put you behind the wheel of a car right now, nor would trust you with anything even remotely important. But you know what I think?" — Misha does not know what James thinks, and he points out that he's not Professor X or Emma Frost or some other telepath, just in case James is scared of people poking around in his brain. This doesn't get James to look at him either, he just goes on: "I think you're acting drunker than you actually are for some reason that you probably wouldn't even explain to Jensen and Vicki, unless it was under the threat of death. …Their deaths, more likely than your own, simply considering your usual charming lack of self-preservation—"

"You're a lack of self-preservation, you… you skinny, blue-eyed cunt-biscuit…" _Ugh_ — Misha wants to just drop into the Hellmouth for that. That insult didn't even make any sense. Not even intoxication can excuse that, and Misha does his damndest to cover his ass: "Yeah, well, I still don't have any fucking idea what you think you're talking about. So there. So I win."

"Which part of this conversation isn't penetrating your liquor-haze, exactly?"

"The _boyfriend_ part, smart guy—"

"Well, you're not exactly quiet about your bisexuality—"

"Yeah, but what the fuck even, 'boyfriend'? What _boyfriend_? Are you fucking _delusional_ , or do we just have some goddamn Gossip Girl running around campus now?"

James gives a pensive hum. Rolls his eyes. "You know, the show is sort of trashy and really only worth it for the eye candy, but the _Gossip Girl_ book series isn't actually that terrible. Not like, Shakespeare, or JK Rowling, or even Danielle Steele-quality writing, but it's a damn sight better than that _Twilight_ shit that's going around the young adult circles, but… it's okay, in a guilty pleasure sort of way."

"Jimmy, if I wanted your thoughts on teenage girl books, I'd _ask_ for them, okay? Get to the point or I'll hang around long enough to puke in your bed."

James _sighs_ — for the first time tonight, it sounds… sort of earnest. Sort of calm. Not impatient, or exasperated, or bitchy, just… tired. Just what it is. And what it is… Misha can't quite finger it, or find the right word. But he trusts it. He doesn't _want_ to — he wants to keep thinking of James as this impossible douche — but he slumps back into the wall, lets his shoulders drop. He stands there as though he's consciously emulating Misha's posture. Closes his eyes for a long, silent moment… Everything about his face is quiet. Measured. Pensive. And when he finally starts talking again, his voice is secret-keeping low.

"So Jensen's _not_ your boyfriend? Not sneaking around with you or _anything_ while Jared's overseas?" James says, pauses, and only continues once Misha confirms that no, no, he and Jensen are for really and seriously, most absolutely _not having it off_ : "Fine, then — I'm sorry. I misjudged your relationship on that count and Michael only proceeded as he did because I was certain of my perceptions. …I'm _sorry_ , Misha."

"Uh. Ah. …Apology accepted?" Misha doesn't feel his face change any, but he does get the sensation of having a boulder dropped into his stomach — _…okay, but. What alternate universe planet did I just crash land on, though?_

James nods. Takes a moment to attempt _not_ looking like some kicked, orphaned puppy. Fails. Continues: "And I'm sorry that we made you uncomfortable… That was another misjudgment on my part, I swear — if you want to keep hating us, then fine, but… Michael honestly had nothing to do with it, and I know how he acts, but he really is rather sensitive, and considering it's not his fault—"

"Sensitive, and ginger, and takes forever to get a goddamn drink… What a catch you've got." _Ugh, are you even fucking serious right now, Jimmy? I'm not fucking sober enough for this guilt-trip shit_ — groaning, feeling the cold, sick, _guilty_ twisting in his stomach, Misha knocks his head against the wall — dammit, he's not supposed to feel bad about being a dick to these guys… "I don't…" he says, "It's not like… I don't hate your pet giant shark-boy because he's kind of a sadist. I hate him because he picks on my boy."

"But I thought you said Jensen's not—"

"He's not my boyfriend. He's my boy. Subtle but important difference."

"Right, then…" They're procrastinating on this — they both know it, and James is knotting up his brow as though this is somehow going to help him figure out how best to move things along. So much for that, since when he opens his mouth again, it doesn't take a magnifying glass to pick out all the nuances — the awkward shuffle of his feet, the way he works out his shoulders and drops his voice further still, the lick of his lips — and it doesn't take Freud to see that he's just doing this because he hates improvising. But he tries to go on talking anyway: "Look, I meant it when I said that we were coming in the spirit of kinky people being friendly toward other kinky people…"

"Yeah, I could totally tell. I mean, my first thought when your man comes in and starts groping me is that, obviously, he's just trying to make friends when I've never given him _reason_ to think we should do that."

"We just… I mean: _I_ just thought that… considering the scraps of information that I had to go on… I mean, between the weight kink and the submission — which, for the record?"

Even before launching into his critique, the way he arches his eyebrows up at Misha, coupled with the exact way that James wrinkles his nose, just screams, _you fucking idiot_. Because, apparently, Misha doesn't feel stupid enough over what they've had to say to each other so far. "You really, _really_ shouldn't talk about your kinks in our kitchen if you want them to stay a secret — Danneel might be kind of a space-cadet sometimes, but our room? Is right on the other side of the kitchen. And our walls? Are _basically paper_. Every time you have a conniption all over Vicki's shoulder, _we can hear you do it_."

James pauses — possibly, he expects Misha to have some kind of response to this monologue so far — but if he wants that, all he gets is another round of a 'deer-in-the-headlights' stare. Thankfully, he takes it as an indication enough that he should carry on: "And it's not even like… being able to sort of hear the TV when your next-door neighbor's watching _Die Hard_ or _Point Break_ with the volume up too loud, okay, Meesh? It's more like… we can hear every single word you say. And if you lowered your voice, just a little bit, it might be harder for us to make out what's going on… but with yours and Vicki's usual lack of volume control…"

"We're genetically predisposed toward not understanding the concept of an 'inside voice'," Misha chimes in with a shrug, only saying anything because he makes this joke often enough while sober. It's practically etched into his muscle memory. "Vicki thinks it's some generic Eastern European thing, because she has some friend or whatever and his whole family's Polish and they're louder than we are, but…" Misha shrugs. Looks around. Wonders where the fuck Michael's gotten off to with his drink. "I dunno, I just think… I mean. I just think me and her are really loud people."

_Dear alcohol: fuck you. If I can still put sentences together, then there's no fucking excuse for so egregious a grammatical fuck up as saying, 'me and her.'_

James shrugs, too. "Hell if I know what's behind it, Meesh," he says. "From what I gather? Genes do stuff to make the human body, like, capable of existing, and for _whatever reason_ , you and Vicki have no sense of how loud is too loud… Also?" He turns his gaze back up to Misha's and holds their eye-contact as though he's imparting the secret to life, the universe, and everything.

"Also… just. I'm not trying to say this to be a dick, I'm only saying it in the spirit of friendship or something? If you really want to keep yourself locked up in the kink closet, then, trust me: it's better if you don't leave your male submission art-books or collections of erotica or whatever just… out and about in your own apartment."

"Yeah, I'm sort of getting that." _I may possibly be stupider than everyone in my life is willing to consider. And I might need to make some rule about Danny and Vicki dragging you guys over. 'No people named James and Michael, hereby collectively referred to as McFassy, are no longer allowed in mine and Jensen's flat, not even for a few minutes while Vicki borrows a book or something' — note to self: get Jenny on board with this **immediately**._

"And I say _trust me_ here not just because that's how Mikey and I figured out some of what you're into. It's also how some of Danneel's stuff almost got us uncomfortably outed to his parents and just based on what Vicki's said about your mother… Again, _in the spirit of kinky brotherhood_ : you have got to be more careful or it'll bite you in the ass."

"Huh," Misha sighs. "I didn't think Danny had it in her to be kinkier than, like… I dunno. I thought she was like. Concentrated vanilla extract with red hair or something…" And, really, he's not sure he wanted to get disabused of this notion. At least, it's becoming clearer to him where James wants to go with this line of thought: "So… you put a bunch of random facts together and decided that I was, like. Into humiliation-play or something? And you just… came over and started randomly bothering me with… with. I don't know, some kind of attempt to drag me into a scene?"

Finally, the reaction that Misha gets out of James is a nod. "I thought you'd probably deny everything if we just confronted you with it — based on overhearing Jensen and Vicki talk about how he dragged you into this… weird scheme of his. Which… I mean. If I'd _known_ that you — I'm guessing — didn't put on any weight _intentionally_ … but. With that story, and how you look tonight… I just thought that… I mean, it seemed like you'd have to be complicit or have worked out some mutual arrangement with Jensen, if that makes any sense at all?"

Misha nods. But he has to think about that mess of words for a moment before saying, "So, you heard that story and _still_ decided he's my boyfriend? I mean… you know he's doing all this for _Jared_ , right?"

"He didn't mention Jared. Not in the chat that we dropped eaves on, anyway. And, besides… he's only human. Cheating happens."

"Not with Jensen and Jared."

"I reiterate: _Jensen's only human_."

"He's only human and totally in love with Jared. Besides…" He barely even pauses to remind himself that knocking his head against the wall isn't exactly good for him. "Besides, I mean. Even if Jensen _did_ reciprocate any feelings I may or may not have for him, I'm a _dick_. That doesn't mean I'm _evil_. Or that I'd willing-and-knowingly fuck up something that makes my best friend so happy, okay?"

"Well, in that case, you're a better man than I am," James admits. He lets his gaze drift over in Jensen's direction. Which makes Misha look in Jensen's direction, too. Which, in turn, gets him to sigh… Looking at that unattainable man makes his stomach twist, and the sensation doesn't fade when James says, "anyway. So… this sort of went over like a lead dirigible."

"Seems like a close approximation, yeah."

"Well… if you can forgive me my horrible misappraisal of the situation and accept my further apologies for where I let Michael go with it, then… I really only intended for this to be some sort of… come to Jesus, 'I don't understand your kink at all, but more power to you, maybe we should stop it with all the vitriol we throw each other's ways sometimes, because you're really not an awful person'—"

"Gee. Thanks."

"'And kinky people really ought to stick together, even if we may never _like_ each other, what with all the rampant misunderstanding we get from everybody else' …So, do you think we could work on that, Misha? Slowly, perhaps, but… well?" Another sigh — and both of them look up right as Michael ( _FUCKING FINALLY_ ) emerges from the kitchen, holding two cups with Misha's drinks.

In the interests of making these two _leave him alone_ faster, Misha agrees that, sure, he guesses they can work on it. He doesn't fight James's insistence that he drink his water before getting his personal space back, either. And, although their parting shot of, _Again: sorry… but take care of yourself, Misha, alright?_ makes him vaguely regret his vindictive tendencies, Misha still crawls into his new glass of rum with happy, poisonous thoughts about the myriad ways he can get back at these two, and all the justifications for this that he could ever possibly need.


	13. Touch-Starved (Oblivion is all you crave).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Danneel continues having a Halloween party, Misha's still not really enjoying himself that much. So, he hooks up with one of his exes in McFassy's bedroom. Which isn't really a guilt-inducing problem because he thinks Dani and Vicki's housemates are jerks anyway.

Opportunity presents itself in the shape of Jeff, who apparently showed up tonight — until he stumbles out of the bathroom and right into his ex-something-or-other, Misha has no idea that Jeff’s even invited. The alcohol’s still having its way with him and his bloodstream, making everything go hazy and warm. Even before Misha finds himself caught in Jeff’s arms, cuddling up on Jeff’s chest with no real idea how he got there…

Vaguely, he thinks that he had to pee, which would make sense, considering the booze. And Misha’s coordination’s hardly what it would be, were he sober, so he probably tripped over his own feet and fell onto Jeff or something. Makes sense enough. Except, as he points out, the part where Jeff is _here_. At the party. Being _Jeff_ and getting his indescribable Jeff-ness all over everything. Misha didn’t even think Jeff and Danneel liked each other very much…

“Yeah, well, she didn’t invite me. Vicki did,” Jeff explains. His chuckle smells like beer and tequila, and he’s the stable one, but that doesn’t mean too much. As he leads Misha to the nearest bedroom, his footsteps wobble a bit. Not enough that most people would notice. He could probably pass a field sobriety test — _that’s so hot…_ Misha thinks, even as every little misstep Jeff makes is so obvious to him. Comes with the territory, Misha supposes. The territory of leaning so heavily on Jeff’s shoulder and dragging him down onto the bed.

He expects a fight, or at least some kind of lecture about what the Hell even, Misha, there’s no feelings allowed here, remember — but instead, he gets cooperation. Jeff flops down next to him without a word… He doesn’t even start up the bitching when Misha slumps into him and starts asking all kinds of questions that, as far as Misha thinks, probably don’t fall into the category, “stuff that gets shared with Jeff, period, much less when there’s an explicit lack of feelings going on here.” Like what’s he up to, and how’s work, and has he gotten in trouble for assaulting his boss yet, because his boss is a major douche-bag and Misha wouldn’t last ten minutes without trying to break his face…

“Yeah, well, of course you’d break his face, nutcase,” Jeff chuckles, with his chapped lips right up close to Misha’s cheek. “I dunno how you haven’t gone upstate for assaulting somebody yet — not like you’re really violent, I mean!” Just going off the fear in Jeff’s eyes, Misha’s sad puppy face retains its potency while he’s plastered — good to know, for the next time he has to guilt trip Jensen and Vicki. “I just meant,” Jeff goes on digging himself into a hole. “I just meant that. That you’re an evil genius and shit. So it’s like. It’s, like, awesome but weird that you haven’t gotten caught and arrested yet or anything.”

“Yeah, well, my Inspector Javert went on vacation in Bali and never came back.” Misha gives Jeff an expectant smirk, waiting for him to finding this _absolutely hilarious_ ; Jeff blinks at him like he’s just sprouted a second head that speaks fluent Québécois. “…my Inspector Lestrade mysteriously disappeared? …my _Commissioner Gordon_ , for fuck’s sake—”

“But you’d be in more trouble if your Commissioner Gordon disappeared—”

“I _haven’t gotten **caught**_ ,” Misha slurs, “b’cause I’m heavy on the _genius_ part of… of your accusation’s… it’s completely unfounded, too, you know that, right? Evil part’s just. The… it’s all accidental, the evil part. I mean. You run around, callin’ yourself an Overlord an’ people start saying you’re evil an’ accusing you of this or that other thing — it’s not _fair_ , Jeffy…”

Jeff laughs and ruffles Misha’s hair. Even if he’s not Misha’s favorite ex, Misha hopes that Jeff likes the smell of his shampoo… It’s berry tea and citrus or something. “You’re so _drunk_ ,” he says.

“So’re _yooooou_!” It’s an important aspect of the situation, one that Jeff’s ignoring, if anyone bothers to ask Misha — it’s not enough to say that Misha’s drunk. It has to get out there that Jeff is too. Or else… or else something that Misha doesn’t know. “An’ anyway, it’s not like I’m just gonna… take shit over an’ erect statues in my… hey!” He huffs and swats Jeff on the shoulder. “Hey, you! The fuck is so fucking funny?”

“You are, dork,” Jeff gets out around the start of one of his raucous laughs. “You’re so… so cute. When you’re all like, trying to act like you can behave yourself, and like you’re not Lex Luthor—”

“Well, I’m _not_! Lex Luthor’s a cunt — a really… a really _ineffective_ one, too — callin’ him’s a cunt’s… that’s an insult to vaginas everywhere — and vaginas can be really nice, sometimes? Like. Not if they’re attached to someone who’s really a bitch or something, but… Lex Luthor. Jeff, I mean… fuck, he’s just a sub-amoeba. Completely gross and uneffective.”

“Ineffective, Misha.”

“What _ever_ — and _any_ way, I’m not bullshitting this, okay?” Between falling all over his words and hanging off Jeff like he’ll die if he lets go, Misha’s turning into the worst kind of annoying drunk chick at a party — he just tries to force that fact out of his mind… And anyway, it’s some kind of credit to how great Jeff is that he’s taking all this in stride. Just draping an arm around Misha’s waist as he rambles on: “I can’t even… you know how stupid most people are? They _need_ an Overlord… but, oh, god, no — you start goin’ on about that, and suddenly, you’re evil like Satan or something, it’s _ridiculous_ …”

“Yeah,” Jeff says with a snicker. “Can’t imagine why they have a problem with you getting all into domination and threatening their free will.”

“I never said _anything_ about their free will, though! I like their free will, they can have it, for all I care—”

“That’s a very un-Overlord-ly perspective, though, wouldn’t you say?” — Maybe, if he were sober, Misha would be able to figure out what, exactly, is going the Hell on with Jeff’s face right now. Because, at the moment, he can see the smirk, and some kind of glint behind Jeff’s eyes, but none of the pieces are coming together or translating properly… Mostly, it just looks like Jeff’s sick or something, Misha has no idea.

But he rolls his eyes and scoffs anyway, because that’s probably what he’s supposed to do. “Every overlord is different,” he insists. “Just b’cause I take the title doesn’t mean I think anything or a different thing or that one thing — and ‘s not like I sit around, just thinking ‘bout how I’ll take everythin’ over an’ _put up_ statues in my glorious honor an’… I dunno, make every third Tuesday into International Apple Sauce Day just b’cause I can — y’know what kind of Overlords do that? _Caligulas_. …would it be Caligulae, though, b’cause it’s Latin?”

“What about a latte? Are we getting lattes?”

“ _Latin_ , Jeff, _god_. The language of _ancient Rome_.”

“The fuck do I know about ancient Rome — if it wasn’t on _Rome_ —”

“Oh my god, are you _asking_ for a lecture about historical inaccuracy or just trying to make me _barf_ —”

“Y’know what we should do? We should go get lattes—”

“We can’t _drive_ right now, are you _crazy_?” Very much against his will, a whine creeps into Misha’s voice — but it’s only there on the heels of a laugh. One that he tries (and fails) to shut up, keep down, otherwise quash.

And when he fails, he really, _really_ fails… Some dry snickering gives way to chuckling, gives way to laughter that sets Misha reeling until he can’t sit up straight. As he flops back onto Jeff’s shoulder, nuzzles up closer than before, Misha feels the deep-set convulsions, the way they try to jerk him forward, the foreboding pseudo-nausea — all because he’s laughing. For the first time in (probably) way too long. _Really_ laughing — to the point that it hurts, to the point that holding onto Jeff’s shoulders is the only reason Misha doesn’t double over into Jeff’s lap…

“Jesus, it’s been forever since I had a latte, anyway,” Misha tries to say, tries to get the conversation back on whatever track it hat. “Might be forever ‘til I get to have one, too…”

Jeff goes quiet for a moment, wrinkles his brow like Misha’s just started rattling off a bunch of astrophysics some-shit-or-other — and, okay, confusion would make sense for some things, but Misha can’t see it making sense here… He wasn’t being that complicated — and all Jeff says to explain his expression is, “Why’s that, then?”

Misha shrugs. Tries not to let his mind wander, even as his hands wander back up Jeff’s shoulders, even as he clings to Jeff for some kind of stability and tries to ignore the part where Jeff smells like tequila, beer, and some minty aftershave, not chocolate and Axe body-spray… He hears Jeff asking the question again, repeating himself enough to make Misha wish he’d start the hangover puking now, while he’s still drunk — _”Wait, why’s that, then? …Misha? …why can’t you have a latte for a while? …Misha?”_ — but for all Jeff’s suddenly interested in talking, Misha’s not. All he wants is to stay right here and not have to answer for anything, to anyone, ever — isn’t it bad enough that he had to put up with Jimmy and Mike being dicks earlier? Why’s Jeff, of all people, got to go and get in on this _making Misha talk about things_ shit, too?

Apparently, though, Jeff’s gone and grown a sensitive bone or something. He shoves Misha up off his shoulder, and when Misha makes eye contact with him, the spark in Jeff’s eyes has disappeared, gotten replaced by a knotted brow and a concerned frown. “Why can’t you have a latte if you want one, Wonder Kid?”

Misha just shakes his head, tries to drop it back onto Jeff’s shoulder (not that Jeff lets him — stupid Jeff). “No,” Misha insists, wrinkling his nose and still shaking his head. “…N-n-no. ’s not important. Don’ worry ’bout it.”

“Yeah, it’s important, if you’re doing anything stupid and reckless—”

“’m not doing anything. Nothing — nothing stupid, anyway.”

“Well, ‘scuze me for worrying — nothing personal, but you kind of have a history—”

“I’ve got a history of getting really pissy with jerks who don’t… who don’t know what — _I have a kinda history of being a pain in the ass_! I like being a pain in the ass!”

“Well, I wouldn’t go and say you’re a pain in the ass—”

“’m fine, okay? Fiiiiiine.”

“Sounds like you’ve been… sounds like you’ve practiced… like you’ve said that a lot lately?”

“Mostly just to Jensen.” Misha sighs — finally, he forces himself past Jeff’s hand and slumps back onto Jeff’s shoulder. “Jenny’s such an idiot, y’know that? He’s pretty, but he’s _stupid_.”

In response to Misha throwing this out there, Jeff asks what Jensen’s done to make him stupid — and, really, Misha expects Jeff to do… just about anything else. He nuzzles at Jeff’s throat, gets his hair petted — he should probably object to being treated like a puppy, but fuck it. He’s acting like a puppy. Never mind getting his hair stroked… Jeff’s hands are huge, and strong, and thanks to them, even Jeff repeating the question — _“What’d Jensen do to make you think he’s stupid, pretty boy?”_ — doesn’t suck. Not as much as it could, anyway.

“He’s like my freaking _wife_ , sometimes,” Misha explains. “You know that? He’s like. …He can’t cook for _shit_ — I have to make sure he gets food or else he might burn the place down an’… an’ I can’t… _I don’t have the money to like, reimburse the apartment building people_ — or do they have insurance on the building, d’you think? …I dunno, ’s probably not important.”

“I think they probably have insurance on the building, yeah?”

“Anyway… so I have to cook, ’cause he could set fire to a sandwich—”

“Goddamn, spent my whole life in the Boy Scouts and I can’t even do that…”

Misha furrows his brow, sits up just enough to frown at Jeff. “Since when are you a Boy Scout? An’ you’re too old for — what, d’you like, troop-lead or something, these days?”

“For my nephew’s troop, yeah.” And there’s that soft smile — the little one that Jeff never wants to admit he’s capable of. The one that’s cute, and so sweet, and Jesus Christ, Misha just wants to lick it… Not like there’s any issue Misha can see in that… James and Michael still deserve to have their sheets fucked up, and Jensen’s such an oblivious little bitch, it’s not even like Misha’d be getting back at him, if he did anything with Jeff. Jensen’d probably like that. It’d be like Misha finally decided to get some more ostensible kind of a life.

Never mind that he’s getting a more ostensible kind of a life with someone he used to date… kind of… for whatever value of dating he and Jeff had. He doesn’t mean to get handsy with his ex, not really… Sloppy seconds suck, and not in the good way, there’s like a rule against them or something. But, for whatever it’s worth to whoever’s keeping score, Misha thinks it might come out of their physical proximity. Or probably from the fact that Jeff’s warm, and his shoulder is _soft_ … and Jeff’s _smile_ — Jesus _God_ Almighty, Jeff’s smile…

It gets to be obvious when he puts on that grin, and maybe Misha’s just imagining things, but... Jeff really isn’t that different from Jensen. Fatter, sure, but he had a better start, and the important stuff might be different, all the stuff like feelings and interests and hobbies and preferences on how to have sex with another guy, but... He has the half-stubble/half-beard that Jensen gets every finals week, even though Jensen’s is magnificently ginger while Jeff’s, like the rest of him, is dark. And the grin.

…Not like Jeff’s oblivious to anyone who’s not named Jared. And Jeff’s not a moron about love. And Jeff’s rough around the edges, not all dipped in sugar or whatever the Hell happened to Jensen to make him so sweet and twinky… Okay, maybe Jeff is really, _really_ different from Jensen, but the important part is that he’s _here_ and he smells delicious and he’s not doing shit about Misha rubbing up on him.

“I mean,” Jeff says, because Misha’s been quiet (and, no doubt, looked like he’s hopelessly lost) for too long. “I guess they’re not that crazy about some things, like…” Even during this pause, even before Jeff announces what’s on the tip of his tongue, Misha finds himself dropping his hand onto Jeff’s stomach, leaning further into Jeff’s shoulder and breathing on his neck — maybe he’s gained weight, Misha thinks, as he tries to focus his eyes _anywhere_ at all and ends up doing so on Jeff’s face, his double-chin…

This gets Jeff to turn closer to him, give Misha a whiff of his beer-breath (surprisingly tolerable), bite ever-so-playfully on his earlobe and then let Misha know, “I’m up to three-fifteen, y’know that? That’s what, another fifteen pounds from when you got done with me?”

“Twenty-five…” That he’s shit-faced and still remembers this leaves Misha feeling lightheaded, nauseated, like everything’s about to fall to pieces — he stares into Jeff’s grin as though he expects Jeff to disappear and, for a moment, all Misha can see is Jensen. Jensen’s smile. That easy way that Jensen laughs and makes everything wonderful… Misha wants to have something smart to say, something that might make Jeff laugh, or something that can let him laugh off how everything had to go and get serious on him… All he manages is curling up his free hand in Jeff’s shirt, yanking him into a kiss.

Misha knows where he wants this to go from the outset: he still has his lips on Jeff’s as he glances around the room, wonders if James and Mikey are so courteous as to leave their lube somewhere accessible — and they are. A bottle of KY’s sitting right on the bedside table. _Cheeky fuckers… I’d thank you if I didn’t hate you both so much right now…_

It’s not a want to kiss Jeff kind of situation. There’s nothing _wanting_ about it — Misha needs this — he needs to smother himself with Jeff’s lips, needs to bite on them like a viper, needs to feel Jeff tonguing at his throat, going further and further down, as though he’s intent on seeing Misha suffocated. Misha’s just lucky that he’s in the position closest to the headboard — he bounces around the mattress, about as awkwardly as he remembers doing at high school dances, but drags Jeff down to the mattress with him, strains the cotton fabric of Jeff’s shirt with how fast he’s clinging to it, how hard he’s pulling on it…

This is what he needs — Misha tells himself that this is a perfect cure-all, just tries to tune out everything else as the bed cushions his fall, as he half-kicks, half-flails at James and Michael’s sheets. He snakes his hands down Jeff’s plump sides while Jeff tries to rearrange himself on top of Misha — he barely resists the urge to grab onto Jeff’s love-handles, and at that, he only passes up on that because he has to get Jeff’s shirt off first. And that? That seems way too difficult — not like it’s a complicated thing. Sure, Jeff’s supposed to be a pirate or something, but this muslin thing would be so easy to rip. Misha hears it make a tearing noise just because he takes his nails to a side-hem too much.

But, for all the haze he’s got clouding everything over, Misha gets his fingers all up in the hems and all he manages to do is grind his hips up into Jeff’s, yank on the shirt some more, whining like some upset puppy because it won’t just end up on the floor without him having to do anything — _stupid fucking thing, no one wants you around anyway, can’t you have some respect for the rest of us?_ At least Jeff wriggles out of it himself. Tosses it off to the side. And pauses for a moment — maybe because Misha feels his breathing go all wonky, wobbling around, half-hearted and shallow, then too deep the next minute… and maybe Jeff’s worried about that, since he’s gone and decided to be sensitive these days… Or maybe it’s just to let Misha appreciate the view.

And what a view — the change to Jeff’s body’s so clear… Sure, he’s big-boned, and sure, he’s tall. Taller than Misha, taller than Jensen — not as tall as Jared, but close enough too it, Misha’d estimate… And maybe twenty-five pounds shouldn’t show all that much on him, but Jeff’s gorgeous. Really. Not Misha’s usual type — burly and hairy — _seriously, did I get him to shave or am I just blacked out how fuzzy he was when we did this more often?_ — and, even after so much time that he hasn’t spent playing sports, he’s just so… athletic. Feeling up on Jeff’s arms, tightening his fingers around a bicep, an elbow, a deltoid, Misha doesn’t have to try too hard to find Jeff’s muscles, which could still wreck some shit up on a football field… Hell, if he wanted to, Jeff could probably take on most of the NFL.

Jeff kind of laughs at that, leans down closer to Misha, steals another kiss — at least, until Misha steals it back. Against his own, Misha finds Jeff’s chest feeling firmer than it ought to — fat as he is, he really should have bigger tits, or softer ones at least — He ought to have something Misha’d have to strain to grab onto, not perfect handfuls, even if his boobs are bigger than the average guy’s — But since Jeff’s body doesn’t just change itself to suit his whims, Misha settles for pummeling his mouth with kisses. Licking at his lips because they’re chapped and, dammit, they’ll dry out from this, but there’s no reason Jeff and Misha both need to end up with sandpaper lips.

He drags his tongue along Jeff’s, sucks on Jeff’s tongue and then bites on it, bites on his lips, knocks his hips up into Jeff, just trying to rub up on the underside of his belly or else get him to hurry the fuck up already. Not that dragging out the kisses is the best way to get that… Not like Misha’s doing the best job of encouraging Jeff to get onto the main event by holding his mouth on Jeff’s so hard, doing it for so long that, when they separate, both of them gasp for breath and should probably pause — not that Misha does — not that he _can_ … not when pausing just makes Jeff look vulnerable, perfect to attack again. But through it all, Misha’s always two steps off from demanding that Jeff just fuck him already. Even if he’s the one prolonging the foreplay.

And even if he’s just imagining it, even if he can blame this fancy on the alcohol or his own body-related self-consciousness or whatever, Misha thinks he can tell exactly where Jeff’s bigger. Mostly, the weight he’s gained shows in his hips, in his ass: he wasn’t ever particularly pear-shaped, but he’s wider than Misha remembers… Even though Misha’s put on weight himself, it’s like there’s more of Jeff, more of his soft flesh pressing down on Misha, rubbing against him… There’s more of a curve to Jeff’s sides, which is, in turn, more visible now that Misha has him naked — Resisting seems so _pointless_ and as he jerks Jeff back into a kiss, as he throws himself headlong into it, Misha lets himself grip onto one of Jeff’s love-handles. What bit of it he can get his hand around, anyway — beyond any doubt, there’s more here, more flesh — Misha digs his fingers into it, jostles Jeff’s side.

_Wonder if I’ll even leave a bruise…_ — Moving underneath of Jeff, letting the other hand rub up on his crotch, bucking hips into hips, Misha finds comfort in Jeff’s gut, in how it’s about the same as Misha remembers it being. Maybe a little rounder here or there, but not much bigger… Definitely, it’s softer to the touch, but there’s still that old, familiar layer of hard muscle lurking under there. Misha’s hand still has to work to find it — not that much harder than he remembers working before, but even so. Work. He has to invest the effort. He gropes around Jeff’s middle without a sense of where he’s going, just feeling up the, but it’s there.

Then his hands fall to the lab-coat’s buttons — its clumsily done-up buttons, the only thing standing between the rest of the world and how chubby Misha’s gotten, the _awful_ pudge around his middle — Before Jeff can even start going at the things, Misha swats him off — bats his hand into Jeff’s whenever it gets close to them, but never manages to dissuade Jeff from anything — The fact that sex means getting naked rushes to the forefront of his mind and he doesn’t want it — he puts his legs to work, for what little good that attempted flailing does. Misha writhes, tries to get away, can’t get far because, without Jeff’s shirt, he’s hooked two fingers through Jeff’s belt-loops, in some attempt at keeping himself anchored to someone who knows all of what’s going on, someone who’s sober enough to keep his balance and has enough of his wits about him, someone whose head’s not spinning and someone whose stomach doesn’t feel like it’s had a block of freezing lead dropped into it…

And Jeff gets one of Misha’s buttons undone. Then another — Misha whines, bites on his lower lip and clenches his eyes so tightly that it hurts, drops his hands from Jeff’s side and his belt-loop, knots both of them up in the sheets, instead — _God, just… don’t look at me like this, please… can’t I just suck you off or something? Anything that doesn’t mean you have to see my fat ass naked, please… there’s no reason I should be allowed to get any kind of nude…_ — Jeff’s not dissuaded by Misha’s sudden silence, though. He smacks his lips, makes a wet, cracking sound to go along with each button he undoes. Before Misha even considers trying to intervene, Jeff’s coaxing the coat off his shoulders, tearing off Misha’s shirt and throwing it to the floor…

And he brushes his fingers down Misha’s side so delicately that Misha has to open his eyes, just so he can blink up at Jeff, plumb his brown eyes for any signs that his, “screw emotions, let’s just have sex with no strings attached” soul’s been replaced by aliens or something… Nope. It’s the same look that Misha’s come to know… just softer, a little bit. And it’s going along with the gentle way that Jeff palms at Misha’s stomach, the way he treats Misha’s pudge so nicely, as though it might break under his huge, rough hands if he isn’t careful…

He strokes down the outside curve of Misha’s stomach, flirting with Misha’s side, his baby love-handles, but never fully groping anything. Dragging his fingers along the lower side, Jeff chuckles — how can he not? He’s getting his hands all up on Misha’s belly where it protrudes over his jeans, even while he’s on his back; he’s not the only person who’s managed to get a glimpse of how Misha’s filling out, but he’s the only one who’s done so in the bedroom. And it’s a privileged group anyway, the list of who’s gotten any real view of Misha’s utter failure to lose weight; it’s pretty much just Jensen, Vicki, and now Jeff. And sort of James and Michael.

Misha can’t hold Jeff’s gaze for too long, not like this… He lets his eyes drop down to his middle; he fixes them on his tummy, on Jeff’s hand that’s _on_ his tummy, on watching it intently and waiting for Jeff to get rough about it. He never does. It’s all easy, soft strokes up and down Misha’s paunch, brushes of fingers over what used to be nigh-on flat. Even with the way he keeps _caressing_ Misha’s pudge, Jeff has to be having a laugh riot in his head, right now — he has to be, that’s the only explanation for anything — the concern lurking under his eyes and his knotted brow has to be a diversion, or something. And there’s the way he splays his palm over Misha’s increasingly plump midsection…

Misha bites on his tongue, just to try and keep from lashing out, just because he has no idea what to even say about this. How’s he supposed to make excuses for himself like this? How’s he supposed to pull out _it’s just five pounds at the most_ , or _it’s just a little bit of Halloween candy catching up to me_ , anything else he’d say when Jeff can clearly see that those excuses are full of shit? And Misha just about dies when Jeff says:

“This what you’re getting so fucking fussy over?” When he smirks, it looks too kind — like he’s thrown out a punchline and he’s waiting for Misha to get it in the same way that he does. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? Worrying about this little thing…”

“‘s not _little_ …” Misha wants to punch him. Misha wants to make Jeff regret going along with this fucking stupid plan of his, the plan of fucking in this bed, specifically, so he could get back at James and Michael. It’s the only thing he _can_ do, when Jeff insists on smiling, and chuckling, and acting like this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard in his fucking life when, fuck…

“It’s not _little_ , Jeff, God! ’s not little, it’s _disgusting_ — my ass is just… You don’ have to act like I don’ know I’m _fat_ , okay? I’ve even been trying to die — stop laughing, you asshole!” Huffing, Misha tries to knock his head back into something, but he only has a pillow behind him, so this accomplishes nothing. He tries to kick Jeff, then swat at his shoulder, but it’s probably some miracle that he hits anywhere close. “D’you know how much I fucking weigh right now?”

“I dunno… one-seventy-five? One-eighty, at the most?”

“Try more like one- _ninety_ , Jeff — one-fucking- _ninety_ — an’ I have to wear thirty-six jeans, almost…” Misha groans and snakes an arm around Jeff’s shoulders, drags hims down closer, until the only feeling he notices is Jeff’s weight bearing down on him, Jeff’s stomach smothering his own — for all he wants to (attempt to) shove Jeff off, he wants the contact more. Underneath him, Misha feels almost small — not _really_ small, not even skinny again — he can still feel his pudge, all the places where his diet’s failing and where he used have an enviable figure — Jeff shifts around, makes Misha acutely aware of his burgeoning love-handles, and how he used to to have an easier time finding his hipbones, when he knows full well that he ought to be more concerned with how Jeff’s dick rubs up against his flabby thigh…

Contact ought to keep him quiet, losing himself in this embrace ought to be enough for him, especially when he buries his face in Jeff’s neck. But the booze wins out instead — Misha starts babbling, letting out all sorts of shit, never even thinks of stopping himself: “You know how small my waist was thirty pounds ago? B’fore I went and got all _fat_? _Thirty_ inches. Not even all the way up to that, even… just. It was only up to twenty-nine-and-three-quarters, an’ I worked _so. fucking. hard._ to get that… and it was almost all the way down to twenty-eight when I was closer to one-fifty, an’ I know I promised Jenny an’ Vicki not t’get so stick-skinny but… now? And _now_? I mean… Christ, now, it's out of control, I'm trying but I keep getting _fat_. Getting _worse_. I’ve just _blown the fuck up_ , it’s _sickening_ , an’—”

“Pretty boy,” Jeff sighs, shifting a hand onto Misha’s side, shuffling around on top of him and once again letting his dick grind up on Misha’s leg. “Pretty boy, you listen to me and you listen fucking good because this never happens and I’m gonna fuck you through the mattress if you still want to, not waste any goddamn time repeating myself.”

Jeff pauses, but doesn’t wait for Misha to voice any thoughts, much less any objections — He grabs onto Misha’s side and jiggles the flab, just a little bit but enough to make Misha’s stomach flip-flop like he’s about to puke — and Jeff pulls back, with barely enough space to get his hand on Misha’s chubby stomach, to get it wrapped around some of Misha’s paunch — because Misha clearly _needs_ to be reminded that his waistline bulges even when he’s on his back…

Except that Jeff holds it gently, squeezes it like it might pop, brushes his thumb up and down the roll ever-so-softly… It’s like getting kisses from Jeff’s hand. Misha whines, squirms, never gets set free, the way he wants; Jeff just keeps going at the spare tire, massaging it as though every motion of his fingers makes some kind of point when all it does is remind Misha that he’s a blimp. A chubby little blimp, definitely on his way to being a _properly_ fat one, all hundred-ninety pounds of him…

Doesn’t even matter that the roll Jeff plays at is so much smaller than Misha’s stomach always seems when he fusses over it. Misha’s let himself go. Let himself turn into a butterball, and despite anything that Jeff wants to say, despite _everything_ Misha feels stirring in him — the hot, sick twisting in his stomach; the rush of blood to his extremities and the constriction in his chest; the itch at the back of his neck, the nagging urge of _fuck, God, want it, need it, dammit, Jeff, I need you now, you fucking tease_ that leads Misha to tug at Jeff’s belt-loop again, palm at Jeff’s massive ass and grind his hips up against Jeff’s, hoping this will spur him on already — Despite _everything_ , Misha can’t get it out of his head, how fat he feels, how he’s so aware of every jiggle, the smallest changes in how his body moves, right down to how his thighs quiver every time Jeff rocks on top of him. Misha doesn’t mean to think out loud, but nevertheless, he catches himself hissing for Jeff to just _fucking fuck him already_.

But Jeff’s just so determined to prove him wrong, first: “This is nothing, Misha. You’re not _fat_ , this isn’t hardly even a potbelly yet. Just a little bit of pudge and fuck you, it’s _adorable_. And even if you _were_ fat, it wouldn’t matter, okay? Because you’re beautiful. You’re fucking _gorgeous_. I dunno anybody who doesn’t think you are. So…” He pauses again — digs his nails into Misha’s flesh until Misha moans — despite everything bubbling and around in his mind, Misha feels his _stupid, uncooperative_ dick spring to attention at this smallest show of Jeff acting like himself. “What I’m saying’s just… so, stop being such a fucking _idiot_ and let yourself get naked, or have lattes, or _eat_ , or whatever else you’re not letting yourself do these days. You got that?”

_No_ , say Misha’s first instincts — because all they want to do is scream that _no one gets it_ , that no one understands Misha’s side of things, or even tries to — that sure, maybe Jensen tries, sometimes, but he never succeeds. He just joins the cast of people going, _Misha, you’re wrong_ — the chorus of people crowing that his body’s fine when Misha knows otherwise, that he doesn’t need to be skinny when Misha _knows_ he has to be, **_knows_** that he can’t get fat — can’t even let the littlest bit of flab hang around unaddressed — or else it’ll get bigger, get fatter, get _worse_ , and eventually everything in his life’s going to fall apart. All because he couldn’t shut his mouth, keep his hands off the Reese’s cups or the milkshakes or the food he makes for Jensen when Misha ought to know better and stick to the goddamn salads.

Every part of his brain that knows better screams out at Misha, _No, Jeff, fuck you in the bad way, the way that doesn’t mean actual fucking — fuck you in the way they save up special for presumptuous jackasses who think they know what’s up…_ But, as he snakes his hand up Jeff’s side again, as he knots his fingers up in Jeff’s hair, Misha doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to run out of the room, he tells himself as he tugs on Jeff’s belt-loops again, drags Jeff back down into a kiss, writhes underneath of Jeff just to feel the weight of Jeff’s gut on his, just to feel small and smothered underneath that heaviness.

And by the time they kick their jeans off into a heap, send James and Michael’s comforter and sheets down with them, Misha almost believes it. He repeats the mantra — tells himself how much he wants this as he ruts against Jeff like an animal, rubs his dick against Jeff’s, grinds his fingers into the head of Jeff’s cock, then down the shaft — slurs, and grunts, and whispers from deep in his throat, _fuck, Jesus, goddamn it, Jeff, I want you — fuck, fuuuuck, ‘s been too long since ‘ve been with anybody an’ fuck, y’look so damn good tonight…_

By the time Jeff’s fumbled the lube onto his fingers, onto his dick, into Misha’s hole, Misha’s got himself duped enough to go through with this. Vaguely, he recognizes the urge to bolt that’s still hanging around, lurking in the back of his mind — but going through with that wouldn’t look good, wouldn’t look _normal_ , wouldn’t be what Jeff’s expecting, what Misha’s built up to… It wouldn’t be what Misha wants everyone to think he’d want.

So he kisses Jeff harder. He claws at Jeff’s back, at his sides. He gropes at Jeff’s stomach until he wouldn’t blame Jeff for batting him off — and when Jeff finally thrusts into him (without wasting too much time on the fingering, the preparation); when he wraps a huge, rough hand around Misha’s dick; when he makes good on his promise, slams into Misha’s prostate harder than anyone has since the last time they fucked, however long ago that was; when Misha drags him into a kiss by his hair and bites so hard on his lower lip that Jeff yelps; when he cums with a ragged scream, spills his jizz onto the sheets to the sound of Jeff groaning his own release, the only thing Misha’s still thinking is that _goddamn_ , he needs to get out of his own head.

 

The afterglow lasts longer than he expects, just because Jeff insists on having it be more than just catching their breaths, getting clothed, and leaving the bedroom in the worse state they can manage. Misha’s not keeping track of time — even as the booze-haze starts slowly dwindling, it’s too much work to count. Especially when he’s too busy trying not to think about Jeff’s hands. About Jeff’s hands holding Misha close to his chest. About Jeff’s hands caressing his soft hips, his stomach (which, no matter what Jeff tries to say, is definitely getting fat). About how Jeff is clearly _lying_ to make Misha feel better — and, ultimately, about the stupidest drunk idea Misha’s ever heard in his life:

_“Wait, so… are you and Jensen poly, like… the. The open relationship, polyamory, whatever it’s called that Vicki writes about, or did. …Misha, did I just help you cheat on your boyfriend?”_

First, he groans, just barely fights off the urge to punch James and Michael’s bedside lamp — and mostly, he does this because the lamp could take him in a fair fight.

With the initial noise-making done, Misha tries to keep his wits about him. Tries to maintain composure. Mostly, though, he sleep-walks through explaining everything Jeff just said that’s wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , because the other option is smacking the wall or some other stunt that’d put him in the ER. He rolls out of bed, fumbles into his shorts and jeans, half-asses the story of how no, he and Jensen are just friends, Jensen’s really, seriously dating Jared and Misha’s not trying fuck-all anything while the tall one’s off at Oxford, fighting off zombies with Simon Pegg or whatever-the-fuck they do for entertainment on the other side of The Pond.

“And besides,” Misha huffs, wrestling with his t-shirt not because of any size issues, but because, for a moment, he forgets the difference between where his head goes and where his arms go. “Besides, I mean. …Even if it _were_ anybody’s business, which it’s _not_ , I’m not a home-wrecking whore, but, like… it’s totally cute how everybody fucking thinks I am—”

“That’s not what I said, okay? I just didn’t want to, like… have just helped you fuck up something you really wanted…”

“‘ppreciate that, Jeff… no, really, I do…” He doesn’t turn around as he slips back into the lab-coat, as he sloppily does up the buttons. Misha can’t face Jeff right now, or else it might be too obvious that he’s lying when he says: “But I don’t want Jensen. Maybe I used to, but not anymore. I’m over it, I’ve gotten, I mean… ‘m over him, an’ not just b’cause he’s practically freaking married.”

Maybe Jeff buys it. Maybe not. Probably not — but moving on’s the only thing that matters now. Sure, it has a lot of sub-parts. Like, for instance: stumbling out into the corridor, tripping over himself to get to the kitchen, flopping onto Jensen’s shoulders and acting drunker than he really is, faking a smile for _Jensen’s_ benefit, so _Jensen_ won’t have to worry about Misha doing anything stupid in his numerous moments of weakness. But the end effect? That’s all the same. Misha’s moving on, at least physically — he whines while Jensen draws some silly fake mustache on his passed out cousin, because seriously? Waiting blows.

Anyway, the whine gets him what he wants: a trip back home; permission to slouch all over Jensen in the elevator and then inside the apartment, while Jensen helps him to bed; and, finally, the time and the space to just curl up in his own bed and plot tomorrow’s hair of the dog breakfast, to idly wonder how James and Michael are going to like the atrocious state of their room. _At least they de-fucking-serve it… douchebags…_


	14. My Friend Has Problems With Winter And Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen is worried and self-blaming, Misha is worrisome and wants to be self-destructive, Mark and Vicki are sarcastic and bluntly honest, and pretty much everything is some kind of giant headache or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts used in this chapter are: "headaches/migraines" for hc_bingo; and "crush" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

"It's happening again, Vicki—I wish I were exaggerating what he's up to, but—"

"But you wouldn't do anything like that firstly because you're a good person. Secondly, because you're his best friend and you worry about him too, and you've seen his worst, so you know better than to treat this like any kind of a joke. And thirdly? Because you know that, if you ever _did_ , I would castrate you with my bare hands before I tore out your heart and made you watch."

She pauses, but from the impressive string of curses she throws out and all the clattering around, it's mostly so she can argue with the oven's sticky door. Possibly, she kicks something into the sink instead of dropping it like a normal person. Not that either of the Collins twins really understand acting like normal people. Not that Jensen's all that great in that regard either. He passes better than they do, but the twins are still cooler to hang around with than anyone else.

And they might not be identical, but the extent to which the twins complement each other sure makes them seem like, sometimes.

Jensen would think Vicki _was_ her brother from the way she curses her kitchenware, if he didn't know that Misha's busy tonight and still on campus, at the moment. He and Andie, Edlund's other TA (or at least the one Misha works with most often), got stuck babysitting some film screening for the Doc's freshmen studies class—plus some, "so, your first finals' week is coming after Thanksgiving" session of tea, cookies, sympathy, and sage advice that Misha's been complaining about for the past week.

In between his rounds of complaining about everything else, anyway. In the two, almost three, weeks since Halloween, Misha's only not had something negative to say about Jensen, Jared, Genevieve, and (surprisingly enough, considering how long they've been friends and even with how vitriolic their relationship gets) Mark.

And it's obvious why he's cranky—at least, it's obvious to Jensen. It's obvious to Mark and Vicki, too, hence why they're all gathering in Vicki and Danneel's kitchen while Misha's preoccupied and won't know the difference if it bites him. Keeping secrets from Misha isn't something Jensen even likes _thinking_ about doing, but if they're any kind of right about this, then they can't just run into everything half-cocked. There's too much at stake.

Simply put: Misha's "dieting." Again. The same way he said he was going to do after flipping out that he wasn't checking in at one-sixty, except that he's nominally more committed this time.

Misha's been "dieting" since Halloween. For going on three weeks now, that's been the thing he falls back on when he has nothing else to talk about. And even that wouldn't be that bad, if "dieting" meant just cutting back a little and working out more, the way it does for most people.

Except that, because he's Misha, it means that everything rests on this so-called "diet" and his perceived success (or lack thereof) with it. It means obsessing over his weight, in the exact way he told Jensen not to do earlier in the semester, and over what he eats, which doesn't look like much anymore. And that's assuming that he's actually eating when someone's not around to watch him.

It means chugging tea like his life depends on it, and not with the sugar and honey Jensen likes in his drinks. It means working through his lunch breaks, hanging out in the library unless he's bodily dragged elsewhere, like nobody can see him doing it. It means acting like black coffee is an acceptable breakfast (and lunch, and dinner), then turning down juice or energy drinks for having too much sugar in them.

It means Misha berates himself if he so much as looks at something delicious, something that he actively enjoys eating, much less considers eating it. It means talking down to himself all the time and especially about his weight, like he's spent the term making a pig of himself when, really, he was just eating better—healthier, like, enough that he doesn't actively risk going hungry, and without all the griping about how this thing or that one will make him fat.

It means getting up early not just to make sure Jensen gets the breakfast Misha wants him to have, but also to go out for a jog and get a shower and hopefully get all of that done before he's eaten anything himself and before Jensen wakes up.

Not to mention how it means hiding his body in those ridiculous, oversized sweaters, and criticizing himself for every slip-up even when it's not related to food, and his new embargo on Jensen hugging him from behind. How it means Misha goes out of his way to avoid having his stomach touched. How it means that he almost never smiles anymore and, when he does, it looks blatantly fake, like he's trying to convince himself that it's real. How it means that maybe he's not pulling ridiculous hours at the gym anymore, not like he did in junior year—Jensen's sure he's not because Katie's working at the sports center for her work-study after getting kicked off the library staff, and Katie's a gossip, so she'd tell Danneel if Misha were being weird or out-of-hand, and Danneel would tell Jensen—but instead he criticizes himself for that, which sucks.

Even worse than all of that though, it means the return of that good old chorus of, _I already ate earlier_ and, _I'm just too stressed out to be hungry_ , and, _I don't feel so well_ , as though it's all fine because he's at least not skipping meals with Jensen entirely. It means encouraging Jensen to pack food away—which he does on his own anyway, without getting egged on, for all the cheering section helps—and insisting that no, really, he's fine with just a salad.

It means Misha carrying on in ways he hasn't for two years now while acting like Jensen's completely oblivious to what he's doing, like Jensen couldn't put two and two together from the pile-up of weird (if only circumstantial) evidence. It means secrecy, lies, and excuses, which hit Jensen deeper and harder than everything else because, yes. It's completely obvious that Misha's not as "better" and "okay" as he wants everyone to believe, but nobody can exactly help him when he's not even admitting that something's wrong.

If this were just a slip-up in Misha's unofficial recovery, Jensen could handle it. He might not like it, but he could handle it. Even if he's kind of partly responsible for starting it, the way he's pretty sure he is, in this case. Slip-ups are supposed to happen. Slip-ups are a part of the process. Slip-ups are serious and rather potentially dangerous, but they're manageable.

Because they happen to everybody and they're normal and you can work through them. Recovery isn't just a linear progression to a plateau of wellness, much less something that shows up in the middle of the night and hangs around forever. It's difficult, it has upsets, and when those upsets happen, members of a support network need to be supportive and ready for anything. Mark says so, and Vicki says so, and all the pamphlets Mark made Jensen read the first time this happened agree with the both of them.

But slip-up or not, Jensen and Misha are supposed to be _past_ all the goddamned lying.

And worst of all, "dieting" in Misha-Speak means capping off every single laundry list of complaints with something to the tune of, _and to top it off, I'm getting fat all over again, because my life just wasn't giving me enough trouble without taking this one thing away from me. Because I just haven't been through enough over this and wanting this **one. simple. thing** makes me an awful person who expects too much out of life, himself, and everything. I mean, all I want is my thirty-inch waist, my one ray of sunshine. Is that really so much to ask from reality? Just this one thing. It's not that much of an imposition, right? It's not even hurting anybody_.

Except for Misha, but expecting him to recognize that he counts as somebody? Might be asking an awful lot of him right now.

Never mind that how Misha's never satisfied, when he gets losing weight, because he feels like no loss, no matter how huge it is, is ever enough. Never mind how he knows this. Never mind how he's _said so_.

Never mind how Misha's "one simple thing" is some ridiculously perilous self-image that rests entirely on what size jeans he's wearing, and that precedent says will put Misha on a direct course to go all black hole and pear-shaped on everybody, if it carries on unchecked. Granted, he'll only do so in a metaphorical, "things go wrong, then sink down to the depths of the Marianas Trench, probably never to be seen again" sort of way, rather than in the sense of getting big in the hips and thighs.

Which doesn't make things better as much as it makes Jensen want to bang his forehead against the sharpest corner of a door because _seriously_. He shouldn't have to make these kinds of distinctions between metaphors because Misha's smart enough to know what he means. It's just that Misha's self-esteem _isn't_.

It's just that Jensen's best friend hates himself, trusts no one, and won't accept help—and Jensen can't even talk about how what Misha does makes him feel. Because he's not the one the problem. Because he's not the one who's liable to stop eating over… whatever this is about (as though Jensen could even think of doing that when he loves food as much as he does and stress-eats like nobody's business). And because ignoring the parts about bodies means focusing on the, _just talk to me, okay?_ part, which might induce some self-loathing guilt spiral. Which would really just exacerbate everything for everybody.

Misha's not fat. He's nowhere close to fat. He's put on a little bit of weight this semester, maybe, but it doesn't show, not really. Misha's hardly even into chubby territory—not that Jensen actually expects that distinction to make a difference with him. Misha sees weight things differently than everybody else. Which, on one hand, makes sense, because there's the sexual level and Jensen understands that one. They have it in common.

And finally being able to talk about that was supposed to make things better for them. Easier. More open, because a mutual coming out made it clear that Jensen's not judging Misha. He wouldn't, not ever.

But there's still the other level, the nefarious and impenetrable one that Jensen doesn't understand. The one where, for some reason, Misha thinks he's worthless unless he's skinny. Or something—again, Jensen has no honest idea what's going on.

"I just wish I could get inside his head figure out what the Hell's going on to make him get like this," Jensen says through a heavy sigh, painfully aware of how he's been spewing his thoughts at Vicki this whole time and how she probably wishes he'd just shut up. "I wish I could figure out why he can't just see what everybody else sees in him. And not in, like, the way where we pretend like he's not as much of an evil genius as he wants everyone to think, or the way where he thinks we're condescending to him."

"You probably don't want to figure that out, actually," she tells him, and her shrug's audible in her _oh, you think all of that now, but there might not be anything anybody can do_ , professorial kind of tone. "Trust me, Jensen: I'm not trying to tell you how to think, and it might not be my place to tell you everything I know about the situation? But what I do know, and what I can _say_ , is that it wouldn't really help for you to try and play Big Damn Psychological Heroes with him. It's something he has to come to himself. Or he'll just forget it again."

"Yeah, well…" Jensen shrugs and frowns at his sketchbook. Runs his pencil over the waves on one drawing's hair, the sort of texture he's working on giving it. It's supposed to be Gen, who keeps flitting in and out of the kitchen, trailing after Danneel, but something about it looks off. The angle's wonky, and she looks too skinny. "I wouldn't turn down a few minutes of privileged access. Because I'm still not making this shit up, and I'd really like it to, you know… stop. And not just because you might start thinking I'm lying and taking it out of my ass."

"Not that I'd want to do any of that," Vicki says by way of wrapping things up and kicking Jensen out of his own head. "Because I like you, and I don't like unnecessary violence, so I'd rather not get my hands dirty in the whole castration business or any of that. Besides which, hurting you would hurt my emotionally special, space cadet brother—but I _would_ hurt you, if I needed to. Hypothetically speaking and only if you ever jerked me around about this issue, of course."

With a sigh, Jensen looks up from his current page of doodles, over to the kitchen counter, where Vicki's unwrapping the saran wrap coffin that Danneel tried to lock some poor, innocent leftover lasagna up in. There's a small pile of pans and miscellaneous dishes in the sink now, all of them dirty enough that Jensen can see the grease from here and caked on residue of someone's culinary experiment. And sure, he might not know for sure that James and Michael left them in the oven, but Jensen feels okay blaming them for it. They're dicks, anyway, and even worse than picking on Jensen at Halloween, they picked on Misha. QED: they deserve it.

It takes her a moment, but eventually, Vicki gets the lasagna pan free of its plastic prison. She shunts it off into the oven. And, as she wrestles the stuff off her hands, into the trash, she finally meets Jensen's deer in the headlights expression with an even smile that makes Jensen's stomach sour and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Nobody has any right to look that composed mere seconds after threatening murder—or to follow it up by sighing in unison with Jensen, and in the same heavy, resigned fashion.

"It's not that I don't believe you, Jenny," she says, slumping and resting her elbows against the counter. "Because right about now, I'm guessing that Misha's saying he's fine, and I trust that statement about as far as I can throw you—"

"Thanks for that." Jensen smirks, rolls his eyes in the affectionate way that the Collins twins just bring out in him without trying. "I'll have you know that I'm very aerodynamic."

"You're filling out quite nicely, too. For all he's rather hypocritical about this issue, my brother certainly does nice work on other people."

Something flashes across her face—maybe a smile? Maybe some sign of interest, or… Jensen can't even imagine what. Which isn't an issue of whatever Danneel thought she was on about at her Halloween party—at least, not the part where, as far as she can analyze, Jensen has trouble admitting that people not named Jared are attracted to him—

"You're not…" he starts, which is right about when he forgets how to use his tongue. Everything else that's on his mind comes out in a mess of half-stuttered syllables that eventually coalesce into: "You're not into fat guys like Jared and Misha are? …Are you? …Or fat chicks, because I know you've had girlfriends, too, and I'm not trying to exclude people or make assumptions or nothing? …Right?"

It's just an issue of not knowing as much about Vicki's kinks as Jensen knows about her brother's.

Snickering, Vicki tells him, "You're so cute when you think somebody's going to hate you for something."

And it's kind of adorable how being an evil-but-not-really genius runs in their family.

*******

It wouldn't be all that horrible, really. If Misha could diet like he doesn't hate himself—and if he weren't so fucking intent on trying to be everything for everybody else's benefit. That's what he's started doing, as though it compensates for… something he's supposed to lack—or, then again, maybe he's always done it and Jensen just hasn't noticed. Which doesn't make him feel any better about the situation since what kind of best friend is he, if he can't pick up on behaviors that should be glaringly obvious. Because self-destructive behaviors shouldn't be allowed to hide themselves.

Jensen was puttering around the kitchen, putting away what was left of dinner, when this all hit him properly. First of all, Misha hadn't let him finish everything— _because you had a huge lunch and a huge breakfast, you complete idiot, and I'm not going to sit by and support you fucking over your whole body for the rest of your life_. He'd wanted to clean up more than thirds, but nope, Misha wouldn't have it, and that should've been the first clue that he wasn't entirely right. Not that it registered for Jensen. Because Misha had rationale enough, and it all seemed perfectly reasonable, and Misha had important things to handle for his sections of Edlund's class—plus, it wasn't fair to make him clean up when he'd cooked.

And then, abruptly as all get out, Misha called from the sofa: "Jenny, what in the ever-living Hell do normal people have for Thanksgiving dinner? I mean, I know turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce—why do people even eat cranberry sauce, though, I mean, my mother's cranberry sauce was always terrible, I can't guess the stuff in a can is any better…"

Jensen said nothing, just blinked down at the counter and the stretch of tinfoil in his hands. He wrapped it up over the lasagna and put that out of the way and slouched on the doorframe between the kitchen and the sitting room. Sighing, folding his arms over his chest, Jensen stared over at Misha and asked, "Why are you asking about Thanksgiving dinner stuff?"

Misha shrugged as though this question wasn't anything at all. "I figure I _should_ ask, right? I've never really had a normal Thanksgiving—there was always something going on, y'know? Mom didn't feel like cooking so we had some leftovers, Aunt Janine was hosting the thing and she decided to try whipping up tempura, there was some ridiculous diet or other to accommodate and we couldn't have normal food—"

"I just meant," Jensen huffed and grabbed at the bridge of his nose. Already, this conversation was a headache. "I thought we had a _plan_ for Thanksgiving? And it involved ordering a bunch of pizza and takeout from all kinds of different places, enough for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, because… well, it's gonna be hard to get takeout with everyone heading to the mall for Black Friday sales, and—"

"Oh, yeah, new plan—sorry, didn't I tell you there was a new plan?" Misha looked honestly confused as he blinked up at Jensen, as Jensen confirmed that no, in fact, Misha _hadn't_ told him anything about any new plans. "Oh, well, since you and Danneel aren't going home, Vicki and our Mom are having a disagreement so _we're_ not going home, and Genevieve's got nowhere to go, since her parents are going to Rio and her Aunt and Uncle and cousins are gonna go see Jared, and Shepp's English, so he doesn't really care, he just wants to be around for food and company… so, uhm, yes. You and I are hosting a sort of… strays and wayward souls Thanksgiving."

Jensen supposed that that didn't sound too bad, as long as he still got his pizza and takeout for Wednesday and Friday—which Misha assured him that he would. And he sighed as he said, "So, since you've got a ton of people coming who won't really care if you're not, like, Mrs. Freaking Dalloway about throwing together a perfect party? I've really gotta ask, Meesh? …Why does it even matter if we have a _normal_ Thanksgiving? I mean, shit. With that crowd, you could make vegan Pad Thai and the only person who'd say, 'boo' is Dani, and that's just because she's addicted to meat."

"Says her cousin who called me a heretic for trying to feed him fried tofu." Misha was still snarking properly, which should've been a good sign, except for how he didn't answer the question until Jensen prodded him again: "Well, I'm going to get the food in the next couple of days, so… I want to get a list together. And I want it to be a _normal_ Thanksgiving because… it just seems like something that everybody should like? At least, no one can complain about it being too non-traditional?"

"Did we not _just_ go over that?" Jensen groaned, and had to wonder if his eyes were going to bug out of his fucking head over this attempt at a conversation. "No one you're inviting if going to give two shits if we have a super-traditional Thanksgiving or not, so why don't you just do whatever you want and bring us all along for the ride?"

"So you're basically telling me that I can have my way with everything and _nobody_ will have a problem with any of what I might do, even considering… I don't know, _everything_ about me?"

"Considering everything about who we're going to have over? Pretty much, yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying." Jensen shrugged, for want of something to with his arms that wasn't bodily shaking Misha and shouting for him to calm the fuck down. "Shit, you could probably just order pizza and Chinese and have everybody do a potluck thing, and they'd all be pleased as punch. So what in God's name is so _wrong_ with having your own way on this?"

Which was when the timbre of that conversation took a southward turn, like a whip-crack, from the moment Misha wilted into the sofa, sighed, and said, "Maybe there's a problem with it because, if I had my way? I would have a side salad and a five-mile run for Thanksgiving, and that'd be it, and everybody else could figure out their own fucking food. But that's not what planning a dinner is about, so here we fucking are."

For a long moment, Jensen had no idea what to say. He barely had a sense of what to do, much less enough of it to slope over to the sofa and wait for Misha to flop bonelessly into his side. Danneel's words rang out in his head—the ones from the Halloween party, the ones about how Misha's into Jensen and has been since they were freshmen—but Jensen didn't let them stop him. At least, he tried not to—he curled his arm around Misha's shoulders as though it was any other day. As though he wasn't sitting there, wondering about the tactfulness (or lack thereof) of asking Misha whether or not he really had a crush, the way she said. Whether or not he was really in Capital-L Love with Jensen.

After a while of just holding him in silence, Jensen managed to spit out, "If it's such a big deal, then why are we doing this again? Why subject yourself to something that's going to make you anxious and miserable?"

Misha made a mewling little noise that sounded suspiciously like, _shut up_. So, Jensen flicked him on the temple and told him to behave—which at least got a straight answer out of him: "I'm doing this because I'd feel like even more of a miserable wreck if I let all the people I care about be _lonely_ and miserable on a day when we're supposed to be with family and appreciating the good things. And if I have to take a hit for that to happen, then… well, that's okay."

"Except for the part where you're _making yourself miserable_."

"I'm practically anxious and miserable as a default, Jensen. This isn't anything out of the ordinary."

Jensen heaved a deep breath and a leaden sigh, not because of what Misha said, but because of the resigned and half-dead way he said it. And ham-handedly, Jensen tried to change the subject: "So what are you going to be thankful for."

Misha huffed, burrowed further into Jensen's side. "If I my diet can hurry up and get working for me? If I can maybe on the track to get down to one-seventy, one-seventy-five by Christmas? Or maybe just tone my thighs back up so they touch each other slightly less? I'll be thankful for any of that happening."

*******

Dinner, once Mark shows up for it, is a quiet affair—enough that Jensen's nerves start twitching, itching for someone to just scream, or snap at him, or say anything already. The elephant in the room is hot pink with lime polka dots, not to mention how it's puking on the carpet, and none of them are even bothering to call it out for existing in the same room as they're trying to have dinner.

Do they have to pretend that they're not here to talk about Misha? Do they have to act like food's the only reason they've come together? Even when Jensen takes second and eventually third helpings, nobody says anything—not that Mark or Vicki would ever talk shit about him being a feedee, but any kind of comment would calm Jensen's nerves enough. Even what he eventually gets is better than fucking nothing.

"Milady," Mark finally says, nodding in Vicki's direction. "My not so starving artist…" A nudge of his fork in Jensen's direction and an overly pensive sigh. "We've once again convened to discuss the touchy subject of Misha and his eating habits. Or lack thereof, as the case happens to be."

"Hey, he's _been_ eating," Jensen pipes up instead of helping himself to the forkful of lasagna he's got ready. Instead, he sort of prods at his food and shrugs. "Misha's been eating pretty well, from what I've seen. That's sort of the problem, actually. At least… from where he's sitting anyway. That he's been eating pretty well and not spending every waking hour at the gym to compensate."

Mark arches an eyebrow at Jensen in a way that's either begging Jensen to please do go on, or suggesting that Jensen might be seriously deficient by whatever inscrutable Mark standards they're using to evaluate intelligence today. And whatever it's supposed to mean, it makes Jensen squirm and sink a bit in his seat because Mark might not be able to read Jensen's soul, but it sure feels like he can. Now, if only he could just let up and tell Jensen whether he's intrigued by and possibly considering this suggestion, or he's completely judging Jensen and wondering why and how the Hell Jensen has managed to last this long as Misha's best friend, considering the mental deficiencies Mark probably thinks he has? It would be totally awesome.

Sighing, Jensen goes with the former explanation: "Okay, so it's not like Misha's new to yo-yoing around a little or anything, right? And we were all there for graduation and how skinny he got? And how it was kind of pretty scary, if not as bad as… well, you know?" (Waiting for Mark and Vicki to nod is a luxury that Jensen only affords himself because he _needs_ some confirmation that he's not talking out his own ass about this matter, the way he always feels like he is.)

"Well, Misha rebounded from that, didn't he," Jensen says, launching right into full-on ramble mode without thinking about stopping. "Put the weight back on, and that was good. And he kept it up for a while, and every time he's dipped too low, because he has some weird ideas about where he does and doesn't look okay, but he really didn't look all that healthy at graduation—but he still came back from it, and he came back from the one before… So, yeah, good things. But from where he's hanging out? It's too much of a good thing?"

"I fail to see how, given our history and his in this regard, Misha can possibly have too much of a good thing—"

"It's not that I agree with him, Mark, because I don't. At all. I agree with _you_ and the, 'he can't have too much of a good thing where food's concerned' thing, because it's true. It's just that we've kind of been eating almost every meal together, and he's been keeping tabs on my eating and trying to help _me_ out here, and with about the exact opposite of what he tries to do to himself, and there could be, like, not a direct link between his thing and my stuff or anything, but I mean…"

Flushing a guilty shade of pink, Jensen turns his eyes down to his lap and drops a hand onto his belly. "I just mean that… maybe all the measuring and calorie-tabulating and stuff that he's been doing for me? Maybe it's pretty not-that-good for him?"

"As soon as we start blaming ourselves for what Misha does to himself, that's when we're really going to dig ourselves into a goddamn hole," Mark says, matter-of-factly and giving Jensen a look like he's just gone and drooled on his shirt. "Are there certain things that we should mind talking about with him? Absolutely, yes. Diet talk is a big one—at least, diet talk with a mind set to _losing_ weight—but considering that his sexuality and his _eating disorder_ are completely different entities, I have no idea what argument you think that you're making here."

"I'm just saying that… y'know, he wasn't stressing out about his weight that much until he started having to weigh and measure _me_? Until we started putting all this together? And it's not his sexuality, in this case, I mean. We're just friends." Except for what Danneel went and said about the situation—but she was shit-faced, and Jensen hasn't gotten any confirmation about this business from anybody, and anyway, it's not the point of anything they're supposed to be doing here tonight.

Except that Mark snorts and somehow makes taking a swig of his Coke look like he's downing a glass of the finest wine. "If you honestly think that Misha isn't getting any even vaguely sexual gratification out of feeding you," he says, "then he has been giving you _far_ too much credit when he says that you're smarter than you act, sometimes."

"Well, screw you, it's not like I'm an idiot." Jensen huffs and looks back down to his belly again—he sighs, brushes his hand around his stomach in smooth, slow circles. It just settles his nerves, kneading his fingers into the soft, stretch-marked flab, into all of the taut spots, where his tummy's the fullest and the most packed with food—he hasn't stuffed himself nearly enough, so he asks Vicki to load him up with fourths, and after a few mouthfuls of lasagna, Jensen tries to get his feelings straight, tries to get the right words put down to them so he can say something smart, and helpful, and that might resolve the whole issue of what to do, how to handle what Misha's doing to himself again.

Instead, what comes out is: "Vicki, please, just tell Prince Charming over here that Misha's _not_ getting any kind of sexual _anything_ out of helping me get fat… well, fatt _er_. Anyway, tell him he's wrong, okay? Tell him there's nothing hinky going on because your brother's _not_ in love with me, yeah?"

And instead of doing just that—even though it's simple e-fucking-nough from where Jensen's sitting—Vicki gets a shifty look and her cheeks twinge pink. She sighs and scrapes her fork along her plate. "Well," she says, "I _would_ do that, but my father and Grandma Krushnic raised me to be _honest_ with people, and since I completely fail to see the point in lying about that… no, I'm not going to tell Mark that or anything of the sort."

Jensen's fork clatters to the plate before he even realizes that he let it go. And again, his mouth gets moving without his consent: "So, wait, like… if he's in _love_ with me?"

"He is," Vicki says with a huff that says she can't believe she even needs to clear this up at all. "He has been since the two of you first shared a room. I would've said something, but I assumed you knew."

"Well, I didn't, but that's not the _point_." As though it makes his point that much clearer, Jensen shakes his head. "The point is just… if it's not the counting up my calories and minding everything I eat that triggered him, then… is it _me_? It it helping me with something for _Jared_?"

"Prince Myshkin," Mark snaps, and flicks a wad of rolled up napkin, hitting Jensen square between the eyes. "The only way that anything we plan is going to work is if you accept that _nothing_ going on with Misha is your fault. Or your boy-thing's—"

"Boy _friend's_." Jensen rolls his eyes and helps himself to another enormous forkful of his lasagna. "Jared's not a goddamn _thing_ , okay?"

"And your point is? Because _my_ point is that _neither_ of you is responsible for what's going on with Misha or any of it." And Mark isn't full of shit because he looks Jensen in the eye, speaks without any of his usual, drawling sarcasm, and refuses to let Jensen look away from him. "You're not responsible for him, Jensen. You can look out for him, you can take care of him, you can do whatever he wants you to do for him—but you can't hold yourself accountable for things that are fundamentally _Misha's_ problems."

Jensen sighs. And understands. And guesses that he can't argue with anything that Mark's said. "I just wish there were more that I could do for him," he says. "Or that I knew for sure it's not bad for him to help me out… or that I'd hear it from him that he's okay enough, or…" Jensen cards his fingers back through his hair and polishes off this helping. "I don't even know what I want. Except for the wanting my best friend to be okay thing."

"We'll get him there, eventually," Vicki says and squeezes Jensen's shoulder. "If he's particularly uncooperative, it might take dragging him into wellness kicking and screaming—or waiting for him to crash out and admit that he has a problem on his own, but… either way. We'll get there."


	15. Corpses On Ice (I Say It Runs In The Family)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen is still worried and self-blaming, Misha is still worrisome and self-destructive, Jared avoids the issue while trying to push another one instead, and Jensen overhears a certain conversation that he could've gone his entire life without having to listen to ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used in this chapter are, "Stockholm syndrome," "learning to be loved," "hostile climate," "family," and "motion sickness" as a single-line extra for hc_bingo; and "denial" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

"Wait a minute, Stud—you wanna run that one by me again?"

Down in the Skype box, Jared shrugs and gets one of his innocent, half-vacant looks, so Jensen says again, "No, really. Wait. Hold on, Jay. You wanna run that by me again?

Jensen blinks at his boyfriend's image, and sighs as Jared repeats himself: he's not gonna be able to make it back home for Thanksgiving. "I mean, partly, it's a money issue, but mostly it's just that… If I come to see you, I have to skip seeing my parents, y'know? And they got some special frequent flyer miles deal on their round trip out to Heathrow…"

"I get it, Jay." Jensen sighs, half-groans, and rubs _hard_ at the bridge of his nose, feeling a new headache building up and getting ready to ruin his entire night even more than this business already has. "You don't have to explain anything to me. And anyway, you _should_ be with your parents for Thanksgiving. It's all about being with your family, right?" _Not like I'm part of that group yet or anything. I'm just your lard-ass boyfriend_.

In lieu of letting himself get even more upset about this situation (more upset than he's trying to pretend he isn't), Jensen sighs and reaches down to his not-so-secret stash box. He pulls out a king size Snickers bar and tears into it, watching Jared slouching around the webcam image—as much as he can make out of Jared's slouching around, anyway. It's pretty late across the Pond, Jensen guesses—Jared's probably tired, and that'd explain why he's kind of out of is and why his half of the Skype window is mostly shadowed—but the whole picture's in high-contrast with barely any color to it. It's more pixellated and off than usual, making the whole thing get a surreal gloss to it. Making it look like it's right out of a goddamn dream. All around, it's not even remotely like Jared—not even a little bit, not in the slightest.

It's more like staring at a German Expressionist film that's supposed to be Jared and searching for the resemblance that purportedly exists. Which doesn't really help settle Jensen's stomach any—the Snickers bar doesn't do that either, but at least, that gets the pre-dinner hunger to scratch at his insides slightly less. He packs it away mindlessly, so quickly that he almost bites his own fingers, from thinking that he has more candy left to devour. Dipping into the open bag of Doritos at his side makes Jensen's nerves settle a little bit, balances out the sticky, sweet aftershock from the chocolate—but it doesn't really help Jensen feel any better about this conversation. Or about how it's been going the same way Jensen's conversations with Misha have gone lately, which is to say avoidantly, like tiptoeing through some tulips made of broken glass.

Or about how, as though the backpedaling and the double-speak and the Misha-esque amount of avoidance weren't enough, Jared keeps ducking just so Jensen can't get any kind of decent view of his body, as much of it as Jensen _could_ see through his baggy sweatshirt, anyway. Worse than that, Jared keeps nudging around in the window to keep Jensen from seeing a head-on view of his face. If Jensen didn't know any better, he'd think that Jared's cheeks look a little fuller—he'd even think that he saw the start of a double-chin—but that's patently ridiculous. Jared's thin, athletic. He couldn't gain weight if someone tied him down and fed him Misha's milkshakes, decadent puddings, and liquified German chocolate layer cake through a funnel. There's no way in Hell that he's gotten any kind of bigger.

And anyway, with how the webcam picture's so much lower-quality than usual, Jensen can't even assume that he isn't imagining things. All things considered? Knowing himself? Jensen would probably bet that most of this whole issue only exists in one place. Namely: his own head. Jared probably knows it too—just judging from how he's all slouched over, resting his cheek on his forearms and blinking up at Jensen with a serious case of the sad puppy eyes, he's probably putting up with more neurosis than he has the energy for tonight. Jensen's just lucky that he has a boyfriend willing to put up with his ridiculous attachment issues and separation anxiety.

Never mind how those issues have made the two of them zone out in silence, staring at each other and saying nothing. Which makes Jensen sigh again. He licks the cheese dust off his fingers, then cards his hand back through his hair. "Nobody would hold it against you that you want to spend time with your family, Jay, I mean it. Least of all me—I mean, like I've got any kind of moral high-ground to be judging anybody over wanting to spend time with their family, right? Because I totally don't? I mean, look at how often I have to see Danneel if I don't want to go stir-crazy. And anyway, like I said, Thanksgiving's about being with your family, isn't it."

Nodding, sighing discontentedly, Jared shrugs again and supposes that Jensen's right about the holiday, and about their current situation, and about how they _are_ supposed to spend time with family. "But it's not like I don't want to see you or anything, because I _do_ —and because I mean, family doesn't have to mean blood relatives, it can just mean people you care about—but it's just that I haven't seen them in a while, either—"

"And you want to see them for the holiday, and I totally get it… It's not a problem."

"Except it kind of _is_ a problem, isn't it?"

"Jared Tristan Princess Padalecki, how would you even think, like… Why would it be a problem for you to want to go see your family?" _Of course it's not a problem—if I'm acting any kind of weird, then it's just because I'm awful and acting like I'm jealous. Because maybe I **am** jealous, which is stupid, because… what? Am I supposed to just be jealous of your kid siblings or something? Am I supposed to think you're gonna run away and try to marry Genevieve or something? Seriously, Ackles, get it to-goddamn-gether and stop taking your issues out on him already. He doesn't deserve that kind of shit._

Jensen huffs and shakes his head and adds on, because he's gone too quiet for his comfort (so probably for Jared's, too), "We've had Skype dates. You haven't done that with your parents or your siblings—at least, you haven't said anything about it. Not to mention maybe worrying about your sister, right? It's just… You don't have to explain it and you don't have to drop everything else just to make me feel better."

"Feel better?" Jared says without missing a beat, perks up like a puppy hearing someone on the stairs. With a start, he jerks right up—and before Jensen can get any kind of look at Jared's body, he's doubling over again—not lying down again, but leaning down onto the desk so he can get closer to the webcam. He blinks straight up into it, scrunching up his face and pouting, and because of how he makes himself look, it comes off like he's trying to stare right into Jensen's soul. "What d'you mean _feel better_ , Sexy? You're not—are you really that fucked up about this or something? Because if it's that bad, I mean… Mom flies all the time for work, that's where the miles came from, and she might be able to get you a ticket out here, too?"

"No, it's not that—and anyway, Dani and Misha would probably kill me if I tried to get out of what we're putting together over here." He hasn't told Jared about the gathering that they're planning for the holiday—mostly because it hasn't come up and Jensen's mind hasn't wandered to it until now—but either way, it's not the part that's most important.

The part that's most important is the _Face_ that Jared's giving Jensen right now—the _Look_ he's giving Jensen that just screams, _Look at me, look at how sad I'm making myself look, and just you try to tell me that you're not going to be manipulated into telling me things that I want to hear_. …And unfortunately for Jensen's ability to pretend that he's not a total pushover for Jared's sad puppy eyes, his heart drops into his stomach like an anvil, and cramming a handful of Doritos into his mouth does nothing to make his lungs stop twisting so guiltily, to make his brain stop doing all the self-blaming gymnastics that it gets up to without waiting for Jensen to agree that no, really, that sounds like a great idea.

So, in the interests of making all the bullshit stop, Jensen sighs. He pops three more chips into his mouth and once he swallows, he says, "It's not about you, Jay, I swear—the whole _feeling better_ thing. It's just… Misha stuff."

"What, is he trying to make another zombie apocalypse in the building's backyard? Is he on the verge of getting you two evicted because of the mysterious electrical fires or something?"

It has to be Jensen's imagination that Jared asks this in a tone that suggests he knows a lot more than he's letting on. It has to be Jensen's imagination, but that doesn't stop him from blinking down at Jared like he's started speaking French—and if Jensen's not making things up, then Jared might as well have—except that he _is_ making things up. He has to be. This has to be all in his mind because Jared has no real idea about the extent of what _Misha stuff_ means. They didn't meet each other until Misha's first rebound from being too thin, and Misha's not exactly any kind of _open_ with people, much less with people like Jared, people who share themselves so openly with the world, people who trust that other people aren't out to get them or hurt them or whatever the Hell goes on in Misha's wormy little brain.

"I wish it were that simple, Jay," he says and shakes his head. "Seriously. I'm kinda regretting every single time I've ever complained about him and his mad liberal arts scientist-wannabe crap right now because that'd be so much easier to deal with than what's actually going on. Which, before you ask? I can't really talk about."

Jared shrugs and nuzzles along his arm, probably just to get more comfortable. "Well, if it's bothering you, and if you know that it's not like I'd go and tell anybody… then why can't you talk about it?"

"Because it's not my thing to go talking about, or my story to tell, or anything like that." Jensen reaches for the bag of chips again—but stops himself and drops his hand. God, this fucking _sucks_ —he's not even pushing the limits of full, much less pushing his own limits of stuffed, but of _course_ , his stomach has to go reeling around from guilt, making him feel like an awful person for even remotely bringing this stuff up.

For even getting close to going, _Hey, boyfriend, did you know that my best friend is apparently madly in love with me, and has been since before I even met you, and this might or might not be triggering him into a relapse with the eating disorder that he won't admit to having in the first place, because he's helping me with something that I'm doing for myself but also kinda for you—did you know that I might just be a terrible person or something? Because I sure feel like one, right now_ —all of which would betray Misha's trust, on the one hand, and probably leave Jared feeling like he's second-best, or out of sight and out of mind, or in some nonexistent competition with Misha, as though Jensen's a prize to be won.

And that thought doesn't make Jensen feel any better, either. God, what is _wrong_ with him, thinking that Jared or Misha would ever pull any kind of shit like that.

But he has to say something or Jared will worry, so Jensen sucks it up and tries his best: "Let's just say that it's complicated and leave it at that, okay, Jay? There's something going on with Misha, and it _sucks_ , and it's _complicated_ , and more than that, it's not my business to tell you anything about it because it's his deal, not mine. But I still kind of have to deal with it, and… if I seem kind of fucked up about anything? Then that's probably why. Because, like I said? It _sucks_."

"D'you wanna do something to take your mind off of it?" Jared says, still staring up at Jensen with the sad puppy eyes turned on—but these, at least, are the, _why can't I fix every single problem for you?_ puppy eyes, instead of the ones that say, _I've got you wrapped around my little finger, Ackles, and you love it like that, don't you_. "You could eat for me—like, in a concentrated way, not like you've been doing? So, you could eat, and I could tell you to keep going, or we could do some roleplaying, or the humiliation thing that you like, maybe… or just about anything, really."

"I'd really rather not… I mean, I'd like it, but not right now? I'm just not really in the mood right now." Vaguely, Jensen wishes that he had enough space on the chair to curl his legs up onto it. What he's saying makes him feel skinny and about two inches tall, and all he wants to do is tuck himself up in a ball and hide from everyone, even Misha and Jared.

Still, though, maybe doing something in Jared's vein might help. Despite his claims about his feelings, Jensen sighs again and slouches in his chair, leans against into the reclining back, and sets the Doritos back on his desk. Shaking his head in silence, he licks his fingers clean again, but this time, it's so he won't get the cheese-dust on his t-shirt. He drops his hands to his stomach and with a huff, kneads at his flesh. It's getting softer, overall, and easier to sink his fingers into, but for now, Jensen just needs to work over all the places he finds where his stomach's taut, stuffed so full of food that it might make dinner difficult. He should care that Jared's watching—that Jared might get any kind of fix on how much bigger Jensen's getting without him around—and he should care that Jared could see him rubbing himself down, massaging his gut so he can put more food away in a little while.

But as Jensen chokes back a moan, he can't bring himself to give a shit that Jared might see how much weight he's gained lately, that Jared might get a fix on the whole purported surprise some several weeks before he actually comes home. All that matters is that… okay, yeah, he does a pretty good job for himself, but Jensen wishes Jared were here to rub his belly for him.

*******

"Whatever happened to that nice Genevieve girl you were seeing, anyway?"

"Heh."

"Excuse me?"

"It's nothing."

"You _snorted_ at me, Misha. What was that about?

"I told you, it's nothing. Just… you didn't think Gen was so nice when you met her at graduation…"

Jensen knows better than to eavesdrop, but at least, this time, it’s not his fault. It's been about half-an-hour since he and Jared, and Misha still hasn't come to get Jensen for dinner—which means he's either putting way too much work into it, or there's something terribly wrong. The heavy scent of Grandma Krushnic's buttered noodles and meat sauce batters into Jensen's face as soon as he opens his bedroom door, so his best guess is that it's a case of the former. And he's just heading out to the kitchen, to see how Misha's doing with the food and his Compulsive Overachiever Disorder—seriously, how was Jensen supposed to guess that Misha would be on the phone?

"Oh, that's nonsense, Misha. I was, perhaps, a but _stunned_ at her appearance—especially when it was put next to _yours_ or to her _cousin's_ —and not to mention how she'd looked so thin in the photo you let me see before, but I didn't by any means _dislike_ her. Not in the slightest. You can ask your father if you don't believe me."

"Mom, it's not that I don't believe you, but… I was _there_ , remember? I was there, and you kept giving her the stink-eye at dinner whenever she tried to eat something."

"Well, perhaps I wasn't entirely out-of-line in doing that. _Perhaps_ I thought that I was doing some good by her, in trying to encourage her not to eat so much. Perhaps I just thought that _you_ were being a little laissez-faire as a boyfriend, watching her like a hawk the way you did, but without saying anything about how she really didn't _need_ another order of egg rolls. I mean, her skirt and blouse were tight enough on her already, weren't they?"

Moreover, how was Jensen supposed to guess that Misha would be on the phone with his mother? Or that he'd put the damned thing on speaker-phone and have the volume turned all the way up? And Jensen knows so much better than to eavesdrop—especially with what he knows about Terri, and about how she and Misha get on, and about how she and Vicki are in another fight about whether or not Misha has a Capital-P Problem—but he peeks around the corner, he gets one look at Misha, and he can't help it. Jensen shuffles over to the sofa and ducks onto it, going for some kind of James Bond grace in getting out of the way, and coming up feeling more like he's belly flopped into the shallowest part of the kiddie pool.

Maybe Misha's had a point about the whole, _you need more time to let yourself adjust to all the weight you're putting on_ thing, about the whole, _Jensen, an adjustment period isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign that you're doing this in the smartest way possible_ issue. A month or six weeks ago, Jensen could've sat down on the sofa just fine, without making what sounds like a huge ruckus, instead of toppling onto it and having to stifle a groan. Not that anything hurts, not that anything's really worrisome or anything—but his belly feels so much heavier on the sofa than it does on his desk chair. There's less support out here—the cushions, just like Jensen's flab, are softer, more plush, easier to sink into—and even when it's not any kind of stuffed, his stomach's heavy enough to make him feel pinned down to the couch.

He pats it with pride, smiles fondly down at his lap—at how his belly's edging onto it, sitting on his thighs just a little bit—and Jensen could zone out right here. He could just palm at his stomach, rub over the lingering tight spots from his snacking so he'll have more room for Misha's cooking, or else innocently catch his flab between his fingers for its own sake—just for the sake of playing with his paunch and enjoying the side-effects of all the weight he's gained so far. He could lose himself in his imagination, thinking about all the weight that he's _going_ to gain, how much bigger he's going to get, how much softer and pudgier and more fun to play with.

But Jensen doesn't get to zone out. He can't let himself zone out, either. He shuffles around, propping himself up on the armrest so he can watch over Misha—and before Jensen can really process how Misha looks, he gets talking again. He tells his mother: "Maybe you thought you were helping, Mom, but… when has the whole, 'watchful eye of Sauron is watching you eat and judging you for it, fatty' trick ever actually worked?"

The words would be encouraging—because even taking into account how non-traditional Misha and Vicki's family is, what kind of child can talk to their parent like that without it being a sign of standing up to them—except for how Misha has to go about spitting them out at her. Except for how he keeps his head bowed and his eyes solely on the noodles. Except for how Misha's voice is quiet and matter-of-fact, and how he's talking like he and his mother trade words like this every time they talk. …Who knows? Maybe they do. Granted, Jensen's only ever been around them a few times—and sure, that was enough to get that Terri's attitudes are ridiculous, but it's a fair point that Jensen has no real idea how she and Misha talk to each other on any normal day.

"I'm not trying to be a dick about this," Misha goes on softly, "but… it obviously didn't work on Genevieve. It's never worked on Jensen when the two of you've been at the same table. So why do you keep doing it? Why keep pulling some trick out of your hat when it _doesn't work_?"

"It certainly worked on _you_ , didn't it?" she says, almost chirping at him. "After all, considering how you've _been_ and how you are _now_ … I would say that there's been some undeniable progress there, wouldn't you?"

"Well, I'd say that there's been progress in that I don't compulsively binge-eat my feelings anymore, and that I generally manage everything better, but I also wouldn't chalk that up to you judging me over meals. If anything? All that ever did was give me a complex about eating in front of people."

"I understand if you don't want to admit to shame's usefulness as a motivational tool, Dimitri. But in your case, regardless of the tactics and what we might think of them, I think that the results speak for themselves quite clearly, don't you. Anyway, at least you've always had the decency and self-respect not to gorge yourself in public all that often, which is more than I can say for your girlfriend—"

" _Ex_ -girlfriend, technically. Ex-girlfriend turned, 'friend who happens to be a girl.' She's dating Jensen's cousin now, I think. You know? Danneel?"

"Well, good for the both of them. Maybe dating Danneel will do something good for Genevieve. Motivate her to lose a little bit of weight—though you know, dating _you_ really should've done that for her, too, Precious. Or motivated her to stay slender, instead of blubbering out the way she did."

If Terri were physically here, it would take some serious force of will to keep Jensen from shouting at her, or bodily shaking her, or… something. All his insides bubble and boil with the desire to run into the kitchen, shout, _bye, Terri!_ at her, and hang up on the witch already, since Misha won't do it for himself—but on the other hand, that could just be Jensen's insides trying to digest everything he's had to eat today. His stomach squirms, and he can't be sure if it's from how he wants to punch something on Misha's behalf, or from how he stuffed himself pretty thoroughly when he, Lauren, and Alona went to the pan-Asian buffet for lunch.

Either way, whatever the cause is, Jensen ends up burrowing into the crook of his elbow, failing to muffle a loud _burrrrrp!_ He belches like a bullfrog and the noise turns his stomach, charges out of Jensen's mouth with the force of a mack truck. His cheeks flush, hot and pink, before he can even think of what to do, how to handle this—because Misha's sure to have heard that or noticed that something's up, that he's not as alone as he probably thinks— _oh God, oh God, how do I even start to explain this… "Hey, Meesh, sorry for interrupting your private conversation with your mom, and sorry for eavesdropping, but I just got a little hung up about how she was ripping into you for **putting on a little bit of weight while recovering from a goddamn injury** —does she do that all the time and, if so, would you be personally offended if I slapped her?"_

(Because that has to be what they're talking about, Misha and Terri. There's nothing else that they'd be talking about—it has to be how Misha got a little chubby back in sophomore year, then came back from summer break looking like a zombie. Jensen can't think of any other incidents that fit these descriptions, not least since, aside from that semester, Misha's always been skinny—but the words don't match up properly. There's something off about what they're saying, how they're describing that time and what happened in it.

For one thing, Misha never binged with Richard. Encouraged Richard to stuff himself, sure, but he never binged himself. Not even in secret. If he had, then Jensen would've seen the evidence at some point, even if only because Misha couldn't take his own trash out for a while because of the crutches and how they threw his balance so thoroughly out-of-whack. For another thing, though… Jensen can't quite place it; something about the whole discussion just feels so _off_. Not entirely right. And it's not just that even Terri can't still be holding that semester against Misha.)

As he's trying to lean forward, get closer to the door into the kitchen as though this will let him hear more of the conversation, another belch comes up, despite Jensen's best attempts at swallowing it back—and once again, he doesn't really manage to muffle it in his arm. And still, regardless of how loud Jensen just got, Misha doesn't do anything in response to Jensen or to his noises. Jensen might as well be a ghost, for all the good his presence is doing his best friend.

Even the most basic reactions—even the ones Jensen could potentially chalk up to him instead of Terri—don't have enough to them for Jensen to think that Misha's noticed him at all. Misha flushes pink, sure, but that's probably all on his mother and the crap she's spewing about Genevieve. The shit she's saying about Misha watching Genevieve eat—which, in all due fairness? Misha deserves, since he's about as subtle as a bullet to the head when hot people eat in front of him, even _thin_ hot people, like Jared and Danneel—but Jensen would still give… well, not _anything_ , but a _lot_ of things, just for Misha to react to something other than Terri and whatever bug died in her ass this time. He could even look over here and see Jensen, clear as a pimple on prom night, but Misha's too focused on sighing and puttering around with making dinner, listening to his mother's bullshit and, knowing him, he's bound to be internalizing it all more than enough.

Misha doesn't even look up from prodding at the pot with the noodles when Jensen rearranges himself on the sofa and it sounds like an elephant trying to do ballet. He doesn't look up from opening up a second stick of butter and dropping at least half of the thing into the noodle concoction. He does, however, sigh like he's Atlas or something, holding the world and the firmament on his shoulders, and without any apparent concern for anything, he drops the other half of the butter into the meat sauce. He shunts the empty wrappers off the counter and into the trashcan, and once they're out of the way, Jensen manages a smile and his heart flutters around his chest in excitement—he catches a glimpse of another stick of butter, sitting right there, next to the collection of spices and seasonings that Misha's picked out to play around with. If Jensen were a puppy, his tail would be wagging faster than a lightning flash.

So tonight's going to be a real, proper feeding session—if Misha doesn't end up using the third one, there are at least two sticks of butter in tonight's dinner. That's at least thirty-two-hundred calories just from them alone. Never mind the blender sitting out in the open, with all the ingredients for a milkshake (save the ice cream) sitting next to it. Something smells vaguely like vegetables, which means Misha's either abstaining from Jensen's food or trying to look out for his vitamins and minerals—or both, which would be a-okay with Jensen. There's hardly any need for him to get vitamin-deficient while he blubbers out, and it'd be a pretty ridiculous thing to explain to someone.

But first, they have to get around Terri. First, they have to get around how she snaps into the long moment of silence, "I'm sorry, Misha, but are you too busy for your mother? Taking a page out of your sister's playbook, maybe? Are you going to start fighting with me, next thing I know, too?"

"It's not that I'm too busy for you, Mom," Misha tells her with another sigh. "It's just… point first, I'm making dinner for me and Jensen, and I mean, I could've just not answered when you called? But I was going to call you anyway, so what's the point in that? And point second, I just didn't know what to say to that, much less what you want me to say to it. I still don't, really."

"Oh, Baby," she coos—which Jensen trusts about as far as he can throw Terri, for all it gets Misha's lips to quirk like he wants to smile. "You should know better than to think that I want you to say anything in particular—"

"Everybody always wants everybody else to say something in particular, though. It's not a good thing, or a bad thing, or even really a conscious thing. It's just kind of a thing? …I think Shepp called it script theory, or something like that? It's all about how everyone has these scripts built into their unconscious mind and these scripts fuel their expectations of other people, and that leads to all kinds of ridiculous things—including disappointment."

"And you want to tell me what I want to hear because you think that you could ever disappoint me?"

Misha shrugs. Takes a deep breath, and gets that far-off, overly pensive look that he always gets when he's thinking too hard about who people want him to be. "It's not that I think I could disappoint you?" he says— _because he knows that he could disappoint you, because you're perpetually disappointed with everything, like, duh_ , Jensen can't help thinking, for all it makes his stomach twist around in guilt. "Really, Mom, it's not that, it's just… I'm tired, okay? It's just been a long week and it's not even Wednesday yet? …I guess you could say it's been a long _several_ weeks?"

 _Why_ , God, **_why_** is Misha being so goddamn _nice_ to her? Even Jensen can stand up to his mother when she gets on about things she doesn't understand—like his own weight, usually—so why won't Misha? Maybe it's some eating disorder thing. Or maybe it's some kind of Stockholm syndrome. …Is that even right? Could any part of this be called Stockholm syndrome, or Stockholm syndrome-flavored? …Jensen has no idea, but he also wouldn't put it past reality to throw that out there at them, too. Because they really needed yet another thing to deal with or another Issue that could come out and complicate everything.

Either way, Jensen can't watch this anymore. He can't watch Misha slouching so thoroughly (in the hips and shoulders, both), looking all wilted and soaked to the bone while perfectly dry. He flops out on the sofa, stretches out to full-length and smiles ever-so-slightly when his belly still swells up and out, still makes a considerable mound out of itself, rising up even when he's on his back, even when he isn't taking deep, slow breaths and letting them push his belly out further. Resting his hand over the deep hollow of his bellybutton, Jensen rubs up and down the curve of his stomach, avoiding any patterns, just falling into a smooth rhythm of up and down—and it settles him, somewhat. Squeezing his paunch between both hand—trying to force it out and making it strain that much more against his increasingly snug t-shirt—that settles Jensen so much more. Gets waves of warmth flooding over him, at least until he hears…

"Baby… are you working yourself too hard again?" Terri's voice is so soft, so gentle, that Jensen can't trust it. Even when it doesn't have that sharp, snapping edge that he's just come to expect out of her. Even when it doesn't sound like poisoned sugar-water. Something's up with her—something other than what's being said has got to be going on here—or else Terri's just up to something, like she probably always is.

Except that she doesn't coo, or sigh, or do anything else when she goes on. She just says: "You _are_ working yourself too hard again, aren't you? Baby, you know that your dedication to your work is a good thing, but only as long as you don't put yourself in the hospital or _worse_ …"

Jensen has to shake his head, shake himself back into reality, when he hears Terri going on at Misha like that. He has to be dreaming or God only knows what else. But he still doesn't sit up, much less look back at Misha.

Jensen can't manage looking back at Misha. He knows how Misha gets when he has to deal with his mother, and Jensen can't watch the way his best friend pales until he could be a goddamn ghost, all because of his fucking mother, all because she asks if he wants to talk about what's gone on for him, all because she insists that she loves him and he can tell her anything he wants, he knows that, right—he does, doesn't he—but that doesn't mean that Jensen can't keep tabs on what's going on, what's getting said. He can't just let something like this slide, when it's as important as it seems. When Terri's actually acting like a mom, for once. Not to mention how she's totally failing to talk about Misha in any critical terms.

There's no escaping the way that Misha half-groans, though, or the soggy, dispirited way he tells Terri, "You'll get upset about it. If I say anything in detail, I mean. And I'd rather not upset you."

 _Yeah_ , Jensen muses, rolling his eyes. _Because it really matters that **she'll** get upset about it. Not like it matters at all that **you're** upset about it now, or that **your** upset about it tends to mean you try not to eat for a few days or go jogging for two hours without breakfast or whatever else it is you do._

"Oh, Baby mine, you don't have to be like that—if I get upset, it's only because I care about you. Just like how your sister and I only argue so much because we love each other but have our disagreements."

"I just don't want to get you worked up or worried over nothing, Mom."

Misha pauses while Terri tells him that it sure doesn't sound like nothing, to her—and Jensen can feel the whole earth unsettling and rocking around underneath him just because… seriously, what the Hell is going on here? What alternate universe has Jensen woken up in? Since when did he and Terri ever agree about _anything_? Much less about Misha and his Issues? Terri's supposed to be one of Misha's triggers. She's supposed to be one of the reasons why Misha cares too much about a stupid number on a scale—maybe Misha's never said so, at least not in so many words, but Jensen can read between the lines. He's been there for Misha's and Terri's interactions with each other. His jaw clenches and he kneads harder into his belly, just trying to take his mind off of things, off of everything he's hearing.

But before Jensen can get too far gone, Misha sighs, and admits, "It's really nothing serious? I've been busy, and stressed, and… everything feels like it's _so much_ , y'know? Like I can't handle it without killing myself or something worse—the fact that I feel like there's anything that could possibly be _worse_ than up and dying? Yeah, that's pretty worrisome, for me?"

"It's worrisome for me, too, Baby—and most likely for Vicki and your friends, if it's serious enough that you're admitting to it. Have you thought about going to student health or whoever those people are? They have a department of mental health services, don't they?"

Seriously—could this day get any _weirder_? Between Jared looking like he's gained a little weight and Terri talking to Misha like a mom and not a drill sergeant, Jensen's not entirely sure that it could.

"I considered it, but… seriously, Mom, what are they going to tell me that I don't already know? They'll take one look at my records and my list of diagnoses from Doctor Rhodes, and they'll just go, 'aha! your anxiety disorders must be making your life difficult this semester,' and then they'll expect me to magically handle this on my own. Like knowing that it's mostly out of my control somehow makes dealing with this shit any easier. That, or they'll tell me I'm pregnant or something, since that's what they've suggested to every woman I know who's ever gone to them."

Misha has a point, unfortunately. Jensen sighs, even just from admitting this to himself. Ultimately, Misha knows himself better than anybody else does, and that's a calculated move on his part. He's as good as said so more than once. Knowing him, he could convince the shrinks at student health services of anything he wanted them to believe without breaking a sweat. Which goes without saying that health services is notoriously useless. All Jensen's ever gotten from them has been a z-pack when he came in complaining of something that turned out to be strep throat. Yeah, because that'll totally clear his symptoms right up.

"Fair enough, but… you're making time to eat enough, aren't you, Misha?" Terri acquiesces, speaking softly, in the sort of voice that people save for discussing how a loved one has some incurable, terminal illness. Misha huffs at her, and Terri doubles back, says, "Sweetie, I'm serious. Yesterday, I got looking at the pictures from graduation, and… I know what I said at the time, but I was _wrong_ , Misha. You didn't look well at all."

Misha sighs, and from the poignant pause, it sounds like he's about to say something when the timer goes off on the microwave. Next comes the sound of him shuffling pots off the stove, the tinny _beep_ of him turning off the microwave, and as he admits that yeah, it's been hard this term, but he's been eating, he has the goddamn gall to (judging from the loud creak of the door) check on whatever he's got in the oven. Terri seems to buy it well enough—she tells him that she'll back off about it then, as long as he's sure—which, of course, he is. And when they say their goodbyes, when Misha hangs up on her, Jensen heaves a relieved sigh, pats his belly in thanks for the good luck, just glad that he's gotten through this.

But Jensen's heart plummets into his stomach all over again when he hears Misha call out to him, "It's okay, Jenny—I know you're there. Come on, then. Dinner's ready."

*******

Dinner's quiet, almost too much so, the way so many meals in Jensen's life have started getting. Not that Jensen ever expected Misha to want to talk about this—not that he ever expects Misha to want to talk about anything that involves his own relationship with food—but even so. About the only talking they do comes when Misha encourages Jensen, when he takes a break from nibbling at his ratatouille to tell Jensen that he can do it, just a few more bites, come on, come on, he can't possibly be full yet, Misha knows that Jensen's got more room in his belly.

They end up not having any leftovers. Jensen packs away all the buttered noodles, and the meat sauce, and all the ratatouille that Misha doesn't eat, even if there's no butter on it and hardly enough parmesan. He's sweating and aching by the time he's done, and Misha makes him wait an hour before even making up a milkshake, much less letting Jensen have it. At least he makes up for the lapse in time by helping Jensen over to the sofa, by rubbing Jensen's tummy for him, finding all the fullest, tightest spots and working them over so well that Jensen thinks he could even get a personal pizza down.

But everything that they don't say—everything that Jensen heard and that Misha doesn't want to talk about? All of it hangs over Jensen's eating and Misha's picking, over Jensen getting his belly rubbed and Misha giving him a milkshake, over how Jensen has to arch his back and waddle just to get to bed and over how Misha jerks his hands back when, during a second round of massaging him, Jensen moans too loudly, yanks away from Jensen like a snake tried to bite him. He flushes scarlet and he doesn't get his usual color back when Jensen asks him to please start up again.

The pall that dinner leaves over everything lasts all through the next day, too, and Jensen barely says anything to anyone until he's got Jared on Skype again. Once the pleasantries are out of the way, once he's given Jay a little show of him rubbing his belly, Jensen can't help sighing, asking what Jared's parents think about all of this—about his boyfriend being fat and getting fatter, Jensen has to clarify, brushing his hand down the fullest, roundest part of his gut. He thought it was pretty obvious what he meant, but it doesn't matter. Not really, anyway. What matters more is that Jensen wants an answer—so how do Jared's parents feel about this?

Jared shrugs and supposes that he doesn't know. "I mean, I've never really sat down and been, like, 'Hey, Mom and Dad? On top of being gay, I'm really into fat guys, and on top of _that_ , I get my kicks feeding dudes and helping them gain weight. Oh, yeah, Jensen knows about it—he's into it, too. Ever wondered why he's put on so much weight with me? Well, I'll tell you what, it's not completely because of domestic bliss or dining hall food. We've been working on helping him plump up because he gets off on _being_ fat and getting fatter.'"

Jensen snorts, manages to smirk a little bit. "Yeah, well, fair enough, I wouldn't expect that either, but I just… have they ever said anything to you about it? Or about how big Genevieve got while she was dating Misha? Or about any of it?" (They haven't, and Jensen's not sure if that encourages him or not.) "What would you do if they _did_ say anything about it? If they disapproved, or wanted you to dump me, or… whatever? What if they got prying and decided you deserved better than me or something?"

"Well, I'd say something like, 'that's nice, thank you for your input, but I love Jensen, and I love his body, and how we get off isn't any of your business.' Because it's _not_ any of their business, Jenny." Jared sighs, gives Jensen a long look, like he's trying to peer into Jensen's soul. "Did something happen? Like, I mean. Is your mom on your ass about going on a diet again? Because I swear to God, I know you love her, but if she's sticking her nose in and meddling again, I will come at her."

Affectionately rolling his eyes, Jensen shakes his head, tells Jared to chill out, Tiger, there's nobody who needs any coming-at or whatever Jared's thinking. "At least, it's not _my_ mom," Jensen says. "I think she's actually coming around a little bit? Really slowly, but it's better than nothing."

"So what's with all of the concern about parents who meddle in their kids' kinks and think they have good reasons for it?"

Jensen shrugs, leans into the reclining back, and drops his hand to his stomach—trailing his fingers up and down his belly just makes him feel less like he's about to say something that he shouldn't. "Misha's mom called last night, and I kind of overheard them talking? And Meesh knows I overheard it—he doesn't know how _much_ I heard, I think, but I just… I have no idea what to do about hearing it all, or how I feel about the whole thing, or anything about any of it."

He expects that Jared will tell him to go on, then—but instead, Jared blinks up at him like Jensen's grown a second head. When he says anything, it's simple: "But… wait? I thought Misha and Vicki's mom was dead?"

Jensen has to close his eyes and count to ten before he can tell Jared, "Why the Hell would you think that? You met her at graduation, Boy Genius."

Jared furrows his brow and tilts his head. "No one told me she was Misha's mom, okay? And with how she got talking to him… All that shit about being perfect, and how good he looked when he was probably closer to passing out and stuff? I thought she was like, Misha's really invasive great-aunt with issues about personal space or something."

His rationale for this is simple: "No mother I've ever known talks to her kids like that, Jenny. Even your mom on her worst days is _so_ much better than that."

Jensen guesses that he can't exactly argue with that, even if the so-called logic leaves a lot to be desired. "Well, I think she's coming around, but that doesn't make the whole situation any less of a wreck for my damn nerves." Groaning, Jensen tears into a new bag of Doritos—the one from yesterday's long since polished off—and follows it up with cracking open a package of double-stuffed Oreos. Talking around a mouthful of cookie, he says, "I've got no idea if she's playing at something, or trying to get him secure so she can pull out something terrible, or if she's just honestly concerned about him, but… something's up with him. And if she's involved with it, I'm gonna flip tables."

"Well, I'd watch out for him a bit extra, regardless of his mother's involvement," Jared says, staring down at his fingers as he walks them across his desk. "You know he's probably totally full of shit when he says, 'I just have an anxiety disorder that impacts my eating habits sometimes,' right?"

"Of course I know that, Stud—my question's just… how the Hell do _you_ know that? It's nothing personal, but… Misha's not exactly open with anybody. Even me."

Jared shrugs again and leans his cheek down on his forearms, pointlessly pouts up at Jensen. "We talked a couple weeks ago while we were waiting for you," he says. "He gave me that line and… okay, granted, I don't have any proof or anything, but I have my suspicions and maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill or something? But I worry about my friends, y'know?"

"To be perfectly blunt about it? You're making a mountain out of a mountain, Jay." Sighing, Jensen cards his hand back through his hair, and reaches for another cookie. "And you're not alone in lacking evidence. Everything that everybody has is circumstantial, at best, so he can deny it pretty easily—that's pretty much the whole problem."

He pops the cookie into his mouth and halfway through chewing it, tacks on, "Well. Aside from the part where he's sick and goes out of his way to deny it, I mean. He won't even admit it to himself, or else, y'know. At least, he doesn't want us to think he might."


	16. I Don't Sleep, I Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha has himself a pack of memories masquerading as nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used here are: "undeserved reputation" for hc_bingo and, "necessary evil" for 100 things ([reference prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560177.html)).

"Jensen!" Misha calls from said best friend's bedroom. "I'm borrowing your old jeans for a hot minute, okay?"

From out in the common room, Jensen shouts back, "What for?"

And Misha sighs, even though it makes his tummy pooch out, all pudgy and soft and hideous—and God, he's supposed to have been _losing_ weight since Halloween. It ought to be _obvious_ why he's borrowing Jensen's jeans, but since it apparently isn't, Misha tells him, "I need to figure out what size I'm wearing now."

 _And that's very much a **need** , you prick, because my diet's not fucking working. I'm eating right, I'm working out, and I'm still chubby, so… I obviously need some help here, since I can't get my fucking act together. I need to damn properly motivate myself and, in the meantime? Until I'm thin again, I'm going to need some fucking pants that don't make me look like a beached baby whale._ But since he can't say that—since Jensen would worry and, worse yet, maybe try to broach the issue of the imaginary disorder that Misha doesn't have—he goes for a different explanation:

"My jeans don't fit me right lately, so I need some that do, and since you went and hid the fucking tape-measure on me…"

"Well, maybe there was a goddamn reason for that, you think?" Jensen says, sing-songing so slightly that Misha could just be making it up—but he can hear it, so it must be real. "Maybe I went and hid the tape-measure to keep _you_ from obsessing over things that _don't matter_. For all the _good_ it's done."

(Wait, though—but Jensen hasn't hidden the tape-measure. Misha just used it yesterday, and he clocked in at thirty-six-and-a-half inches around.

Or did he? That seems like too much, because he _has_ lost weight. Not a lot of it, but some—a decent enough amount, all things considered. He can't recall, but he knows he's not just making up the part about the tape-measure being in its place.

He _knows_ that that part happened. Even if he's not remembering them right, he took the measurements down in his longhand journal; he sent it to blue-eyed Matt and Portia in an email; he posted it on the private blog that no one else knows about, or at least, he hopes they don't. He checked in on it this morning, too, just peeked the drawer. Not to measure anything, much less himself, but to make sure that Jensen _hadn't_ run off with it or stashed it somewhere secret where Misha couldn't find it. Just like Richard did before him, and for the exact same reason that Richard made up.

But no dice. Nothing changed. Not even a little bit. The tape-measure's still in Misha's desk—so why is he so worried about it going missing?)

Either way, Misha shivers as he stands before Jensen's full-length mirror, which hangs on the inside of his closet door. Misha shudders, brushing his hands down his sides—he just means to smooth out his t-shirt, but his palms and fingers sink into his love-handles and his softer hips—his heart drops to his stomach at the realization that _he can squeeze them_. He _does_ squeeze them—he catches more than considerable lumps of flesh up in both hands and, worse yet, he can shake them. Jostle them and, in doing so, he makes his entire stomach tremble. He almost doesn't want to bother with this whole, "getting dressed, putting on jeans, seeing how they fit him" thing. Shaming himself over how chunky he's gotten could turn around and motivate him to diet better, harder.

Moreover, he doesn't think struggling into any of Jensen's jeans constitutes a good use of his time—until Misha glances down at his thighs. His stupid thighs that quiver and huddle together, rub up against each other as Misha shuffles on his feet. Even now, he thinks it's enough to see himself in his increasingly snug t-shirt, get a glimpse of how close it snugs against his heavy pudge—he thinks it might be enough, because it's too much of a risk that he could max out his fat best friend's fat-ass jeans—until his thighs have to wobble around, remind him of the gap he's lost, make everything else in the world come crashing down on Misha's shoulders, threatening to drag him down or at least to stick him with the sting of tears welling up beyond his control.

Because he can't look at his thighs without wanting to claw his eyes out, without remembering that they used to be so thin, so taut, so toned. Even glancing at their poor reflection makes Misha's stomach churn and his sigh catch in his throat. For a moment, he just palms at his _(stupid, stupid, fat, fat, stupid, pudgy)_ tummy—drags his hand down the gentle, convex curve, grabs a roll of flab up in both hands and shakes it as well, pushes both hands into the soft, round, supple deposit of fat along his waistline and makes his disgusting, pale flab stick out that much further (far enough to push his t-shirt up to mid-bellybutton height). Misha can't believe how much he's let himself slip up, how much he must've gotten lax to let himself go so soft and fleshy, let himself get all plumped up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

And yet, everything's clear in his mind, as well: he's been eating with Jensen—eating smaller portions than Jensen, sure, but nevertheless, he's broken his diet more than enough. He hasn't made time for his runs, the way he should have. Sleep is for the weak; he'll just need to find the time, even if it means getting up earlier.

Still, Misha has to remind himself of what's at stake here. Of how bad he's let his weight problem—because there isn't any other word for it—get. He takes a deep breath so he can suck it all in—all the paunch he's put on around the middle, all his yielding and much-too-comfortable flesh, all of his obnoxious, nauseating tummy. Once it's all back, once he could corset himself up and maybe pass for thin enough, he heaves a sigh and whines when his stomach pooches over the waistband of his boxer-briefs. They're his most comfortable shorts, but they make the issue of his thighs seem so much worse, so much more insurmountable. They cling and cut into his flab. They show off every jiggling, shivering inch of his softer, fuller figure. When he smacks at his thighs, his shorts don't sugarcoat anything for him: he's gotten too fat to be allowed.

So, Misha grabs up the first pair of Jensen's jeans that he can find, yanks them off the floor and fumbles into them. He only pauses briefly and just to read the size tag. They're thirty-sixes, so with his measurements, they should fit him just fine.

Except that they don't. Except that Misha wriggles into them, suffers through his little belly bouncing as he tries to jerk the uncomfortably snug things up his porky thighs—only to find that the jeans are way too small. Except that a pale swell of flab forces the fly's flaps apart. Misha tugs at the button and the hole, but to no avail—his skin crawls and when he tries to suck in his stomach, it quivers, trembles, shakes—and bulges forward, getting bigger still. No longer a tummy or anything so potentially mistaken for cute, his belly flops forward, sagging over his elastic waistband, which slices hard into his flesh and chafes along his skin with ever smallest movement, threatens to rip or snap in half because he's all too much for it anymore and with no fucking idea how this happened, how he could've gotten this way.

And he needs to _find_ some kind of idea, because this way's familiar too him and it needs to fucking go. His t-shirt doesn't just strain around his torso, getting slightly snug and edging into being uncomfortable. Instead, it rides up all the way on him, baring his plump midriff, the deep, black hole hollow of his bellybutton, and the flabby, sagging underside of his stretch-marked stomach. So much worse than every other part of him, his thighs curve out further than his plush hips do, squirming the same way that they make his insides squirm, cleaving to each other, groping together, ghastly and whitish and pockmarked with cellulite, with ripples in the skin and cottage cheese lumps and dips. Misha's pudgy fingers flutter as he ghosts them up and down his thighs new texture, and all he wants is to bury his fingers in the back of his throat, until he pukes enough to get his body back.

This can't be real. It just can't be. Misha's heart races, pounds enough to make his head spin, claws along the insides of his chest—and he shudders closer to the mirror. His footfalls bang and thunder on the creaking floorboards, make the knick-knacks on Jensen's desk bounce around. Moving the distance between himself and the mirror shouldn't take so long, but Misha's legs are too heavy for him—he can't move them very easily at all, but finally, chest heaving and short breaths panting in and out of him, with sweat beading up along his forehead, Misha gets there. Gets up close and personal with the mirror and his chubby-cheeked, double-chinned reflection, with its gut and its thick rolls upon rolls of fat. Misha heaves a sigh. He reaches out. He lays his hand flat on the mirror's cool surface.

And it breaks. He doesn't even have to smack it, the way he wants to do. Cracks spider out, shattering the surface, deep fault lines tracing out from Misha's hand. Then the whole thing shatters. The whole room breaks around him, too. Every last thing around Misha falls away as his spine shrinks up and his body blubbers further out, and something lurches around his deep, dark, bellybutton, drags Misha down, down, down…

*******

So Misha's dreaming, and he knows that now, but it doesn't make where he lands any easier. Catching his breath takes him longer than it should. When he looks down at alternating grey and green linoleum tiles, Misha can't see his feet anymore, not around the heavy, blubbery gut that curves out ahead of him, that pushes out against his t-shirt, making it wrinkle up along his belly and expose the chunky underside of his stomach—at least, of the massive roll above his waist, which flops out over the elastic waistband of his jean shorts. He's fourteen and he's humongous, bulging all over with fat.

Even before he gets a proper look at his surroundings, Misha knows where he is. Stevenson Middle School, the last day of his eighth grade year. The lockers ahead of him seem to stretch up and up, going on forever and curving in on themselves so they can properly loom over him. Underneath the glare of the fluorescent lights, Misha's whole face flushes hotter than Hell—his head feels heavier than he's used to, and he can't lift his eyes from his disgusting stomach. Then, he might see someone. Or worse, they might actually acknowledge him, instead of just letting him trundle along so he can go home.

All he needs to do is clean out his locker. Stuff the books and papers and everything else into his backpack, then skip the bus because walking the six long blocks home leaves Misha breathless, but it's better than squeezing himself through the tiny aisle-way, stuffing himself into the tinier seats, and suffering through the snide remarks that the other kids make. It's bad enough that he has to hear, _oh, man, Misha's already here, looks like we're out of luck for lunch_ , and _do you sleep in a crate, there can't be a bed that's big enough for you_ , and _hey, Fat-Ass, how does it feel to be so huge, you have your own orbit_ , and _you know why nobody can ever by Misha's girlfriend? it's not because he's a beached baby whale; it's because he's already dating **food**_.

What's worse is that they don't even say this to his face, sometimes—they just talk about him like he isn't there, like he never blushes scarlet from the shame of hearing what they say and knowing that it's true. The whispers follow Misha as he thunders down the corridor—even if he could run without looking stupid, he wouldn't get going fast enough to escape them. Louder than the whispers, though? Comes the sound of denim rubbing against denim, the scraping sound of his thighs as they huddle and jiggle together, chafe up against each other—maybe he could handle the way that the other kids talk about him, if not for the tree trunks that he has to waddle around school on.

Once he's at his locker, he whips his backpack off and tears it open, shovels the books and papers into it. Everything else gets left behind a moment though—Misha has to look left, right, left again. He's had to stash things here—packages of cookies, bags of chips and candies from the vending machine—at home, he's on diet after failed diet, and no one even tries to understand. It's not even that Misha's got a problem—he doesn't have a problem, of course he doesn't. Or maybe he does, but it's not the sort of problem that Mom wants to make it out to be. It's nothing emotional or psychological; he's just so _hungry_ and it _never stops_.

All the time, Misha's hungry, with an urge that scratches all along the back of his neck with talons, even when it flushes hot and sweaty with shame because he's too fat to be allowed. If anything, that private little mortification just makes the hunger worse, like there's some kind of link between his stupid stomach and how much he wants to just crawl in a hole, bury himself enough that he can't get out, and waste away down there until he's skinny. That's why he has so many things hidden away in his locker. And it's why he has a secret stash of sweets hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk at home. And the worst part is that if he weren't so hungry, maybe he could lose this weight, but he _is_ , and nothing helps.

Well, maybe Camp Prospect's going to help. Maybe Mom's got the right idea, shipping Misha off to some _adolescent weight management retreat_ , as though any part of that euphemism doesn't scream _fat camp_ , as though any part of it somehow makes where Misha's going to spend this summer any less obvious (and as far as Misha's opinion counts, nothing masks what's in his future). Maybe they'll have some magic pill or potion, anything to make him less hungry, less often. Anything to help him get his life back from food. Food controls him now, but maybe it won't anymore, if he just works hard enough at his—euphemisms put aside, because they're stupider than his fat, disgusting stomach— _fat camp_.

But none of that means Misha has to let anyone see him yanking things out of his locker. He doesn't have to let people see proof of how gross he's let himself become—but he hasn't moved the second package of Oreos before he flinches, before the locker next to him slams shut. Misha gasps, chokes back on a shudder as he looks around his own locker's door—and like a fat cat in a fishbowl, skinny, perfect Sarah smirks at him.

"I'd tell you to have a good summer," she says, "but I think you've probably got that handled. Gonna curl up with your boyfriends, Ben and Jerry? Or maybe your girlfriend, Mrs. Fields?"

Misha rolls his eyes, and huffs, and just tells her to have a good summer—it's not worth it to engage and give her a proper verbal takedown, not when his stomach aches from hunger and he has to get home so he can eat in private. He keeps it cool, but what he's thinking is that she has no idea what she's talking about. Maybe he's fat—maybe he's the fattest kid at school, the fattest kid in town, or even the fattest kid in the whole state—but Misha feels absolutely nothing _good_ about food. Much less anything that could be called _love_.

Misha doesn't love food in the slightest. He hates it with every flabby ounce that he's got on him.

*******

Except he doesn't hate food all that much, not when he's alone. When no one else can see him, judge him, shame him into feeling full, Misha loves food—because that's the only explanation, at least the only one that makes any sense at all.

Misha tells himself how much he hates food, but once he's alone? Once he's holed up in his room, with the door locked behind him so not even Vicki can get in? He pretty much goes and proves the opposite. Rather than hating food, he has to love it, or how else could he do what he does to himself, even knowing that he's so fat, so huge, and so revolting.

He breaks out his secret stash and dumps the stuff from his locker into the box—leaves himself with a mountain of sweets and cookies and candy and chips—and looking at it all, Misha's not sure how he could get the box's top back on. He'll find a way, he tells himself, but not before he lets himself have just one cookie. Just one. As a reward, because he didn't start a fight with Sarah.

But one turns into two—and this second one's a reward for his perfect grades. And the third's a reward for how he didn't sweat that much on his walk back home from school—that's a pretty big achievement, too. It might mean he's losing weight, even though his clothes don't show it. Sitting on his creaky bed, even leaning back against the headboard, Misha has to splay his legs to accommodate his flabby belly, which strains against his shorts and shirt—but he must be losing weight, even just a little bit, if he managed to get home without breaking a huge sweat.

Back in February, the second-to-last time he went to Doctor Fulton's, Misha tipped the scales at three-hundred and twenty-six pounds. Worse than that, he only stood at five-six to Vicki's five-eight, but weighed in at over twice what she did—and sure, he knows he got a little bigger after that. He weighed in at three-thirty-three in March, when Doctor Fulton filled out the forms for him to go to fat camp. But maybe he's lost a couple pounds or something since then. Maybe there's a light at the end of the tunnel and he's getting better, after all.

Of course, he's fucking all that up by eating like he is, making a total pig of himself in the name of a reward. Misha's whole face flushes hot and scarlet; that heat spills down the back of his pudgy neck; his stomach turns over in some Olympics-class gymnastics, and before he knows what's what, Misha's tearing through the whole of his stash. Cramming cookie after cookie, chocolate bar after chocolate bar, handful of chips after handful of chips into his mouth. He can't let anything go uneaten. Not because he wants to eat it, but because of what might happen if he doesn't eat it.

He has no idea what will happen if he doesn't eat it, but he knows that it's something awful. The thought of not eating everything gives his stomach a more sickening quiver than how much food he's stuffing down his throat. He loses track of time, because it doesn't matter. He loses track of how much melted chocolate and cheese dust he has to lick off his fingers, because it doesn't matter. He even drowns out the pangs of his gut pushing out against itself, because the pain doesn't matter as much as _eating everything_. Nothing matters as much as eating until he can't eat anymore, until whatever's wrong with him feels right again.

Even when Misha's pants get so uncomfortable that he can hardly breathe, he doesn't stop. He doesn't stop until he hears a _snnnap! ping!_ —he doesn't stop until there's nothing left in the stash, until he looks down and sees the full expanse of his belly surging forward, shoving his shorts' flaps aside like it's nothing. And everything about the situation hits him. Everything bad, everything that he's tried so hard to block out and ignore. Everything terrible about what a failure he is, about how much of an awful disappointment he is, about how gross and wrong he is, has always been, will ever be.

No, of course he isn't losing any weight. Of course he's gone and gotten too fat for all his clothes. Of course he's so fat that he can bust the button off a pair of pants with an elastic waistband. What was Misha thinking, even letting himself entertain the notion that he might ever be skinny. All that fat camp's going to do for him is make him feel fatter, emptier, hungrier, worse.

*******

Camp Prospect sits in some place upstate that Misha's never even heard of, getting close to the border with New York. Getting to it means a four-hour drive through hilly terrain, all covered in trees and bright green, with the occasional rocky cliffside marring everything, with the even more infrequent gray netting stretched up along those places to protect from rockslides. Misha tries to take a nap—the scenery is nothing he hasn't seen before when they've driven up to Buffalo to see Grandma Krushnic—but his stomach reels too much, the back of his neck itches too much, his nerves scratch at his muscles… Hunger and carsickness collide with each other but never make good on the threat to make him puke.

He wishes that they would, though, because all the waiting gets intolerable. It's just awful—to have that danger dangling over his head, always saying that it _could_ drop, could impale him all the way through and kill him dead—and to have it never even try, because trying might give Misha some relief from the anxiety twisting around in his stomach.

When Mom and Dad and Vicki ditch him up at Camp Prospect, Misha's never been happier for the word _uniform_. At least he's guaranteed some t-shirts and some gym shorts that will fit him fine, for all the good it's going to do. At least all the other kids will have to dress exactly the same as him, outside of any swimsuits that anyone might have brought. Misha can't imagine why the counselor who tells him this thinks swimsuits are an issue. Her name's Amanda, and she's pretty, and she says this while she walks him back down a dirt path to Camelot, the cabin he'll be bunking in with three other guys, none of whom have checked in yet because Misha's one of the first inmates to get here, period.

Maybe she only thinks that swimsuits are a Thing because she's tall—taller than Misha, anyway—and she's slim—not supermodel slim, but she's got visible muscle on her, too, and Misha can't think of any muscle that he's seen in Mom's high-end fashion magazines. Maybe Amanda only thinks that swimsuits will be any kind of issue because they've never been one for her. Maybe this is just her way of trying to tell Misha that he's at a fat camp anyway, to be surrounded by other kids with weight problems and other kids who have Issues controlling their own lives instead of letting food do that for them, so he doesn't need to be self-conscious. No one can really judge him when they're all a bunch of fat-asses, too.

Except it doesn't work like that, and Amanda ought to know that. Misha's not going anywhere near the lake or the swimming pool without a t-shirt, and everyone's going to judge him when he doesn't end up losing any weight. He'll probably end the summer just as huge as he is now—however big that really is, with his wide hips and his tree trunk legs and his swollen, flabby gut—while everybody else gets skinny and perfect and socially acceptable, then goes back home to all kinds of happy lives that Misha's never going to have. And they'll judge him for that. Give him uncreative nicknames like Sarah's done back home, stare at him during meals (even if he doesn't eat that much), laugh their asses off when he can't run as many laps as they can.

Misha doesn't get to mull this over for too long, though. Amanda gives him a few minutes to unpack, then shepherds him off to another cabin—a bigger one, sitting right next to the still-bigger cabin-looking place that she identifies as the mess hall. It's so odd how they actually plan on giving their inmates food, Misha almost misses Amanda pointing down a long corridor, identifying the rooms for him.

But she snaps by way of getting him to pay attention. Once she's got him back out of his own head, she runs down the line, pointing out the administrative offices (where they keep the phone, in case someone needs to call home), the laundry (just in case anyone ends up needing it), the trading post (with stamps and postcards, since most of the communication home is going to be written), the counselors' and nutritionists' offices (which are all a part of the plan, he'll get used to having meetings in there), the group therapy room (Misha'll get used to his meetings in there, too, and she promises that it's not as big and scary as it sounds), the post office (which is also where campers' mail from home will come in, though packages will, of course, be looked through for contraband, first, just like how they checked Misha's bags)—

"Contraband?" Misha splutters, wrinkling up his entire face. "What, you mean like bombs, or something? Has anyone ever actually _tried_ to bomb a freaking _fat camp_?" (He'll feel guilty if someone has, but it still bears asking.)

Amanda snorts, rolls her eyes, and gently pats him on the shoulder. "You're a clever one, aren't you," she says. "I think I'm gonna like that about you, as long as you're not one of the clever ones who likes to make trouble for us counselors."

"I don't think you've got enough open space for me to really make a conductor, much less channel the energy into anything. I mean, I could probably make one out of silverware from the mess hall and rubber-bands, but it wouldn't be effective because lightning always strikes the tallest object and I could probably find an open field around here? But the lightning would probably still go for a tree, so… sort of puts an end to any kind of playing Doctor Frankenstein, y'know?"

He squints out the window at the trees, then shrugs at Amanda, gives her a half-assed, pale little smile. It's not like anyone takes his thing about zombies seriously, anyway, so there's probably no harm in telling her anything about it. She tilts her head at him for a moment, then pats his shoulder again and starts leading Misha down the hallway to the only room she hasn't identified for him yet. He tries asking where they're going, what's in the last room, he didn't really mean it about making zombies or anything, so she doesn't have to take him to the principal or whoever's in charge of this place, or anything like that, because he was really just kidding, so there's nothing to take care of, right?

(Okay, so maybe he's stretching the truth a little thin in professing his innocence like this, but it's better than getting in trouble on his first day here. It's better than maybe getting sent home when he _needs_ to be here.)

Snickering and shaking her head, Amanda leads him into what proves to be the infirmary. She introduces him to Doctor Blackwood, a smiling older woman with a stethoscope dangling around her neck, who says that Misha just needs to complete the required check-in physical assessment—because yes, he had to get another one performed before he could come up here, but they need to make sure that everything they have on-file is up-to-date and accurate. He shudders, feeling cold and hungry—so gnawingly, pressingly _hungry_ —but he makes it through all the tests for temperature and blood pressure and vision. He's fine through all of it—until they point him to the scale.

"Is that really necessary?" he says before he can think that maybe, he should stop himself. And since he's already started digging himself a hole, he figures that he might as well commit to it: "I mean… can't you just write down _fat_ and have that be that? I mean, it'd be as accurate as anything else you could say."

"You're super-cute, Clever Bunny," Amanda says from where she's leaning against the wall. "But we can't keep track of your weight loss unless we know how much you weigh now, can we?"

It's perfectly logical and Misha supposes that she can't. He heaves a deep breath—tries not to get hung up on the fact that the scale goes up to six-hundred and fifty pounds—it doesn't mean that he's that big. If anything, it just means that Camp Prospect's school—the year-round place that's dedicated to helping kids and teens lose weight—has kids who are even bigger than Misha is. Maybe the summer camp will even have bigger kids than him. He closes his eyes as he toes out of his sneakers and steps up on the platform. He opens them when he hears the tell-tale _beep!_ of the scale finishing up its job.

The readout sits in front of him, with the display screen perched on a pole. The whole thing's clearly been designed for fat-asses like Misha, who haven't seen their feet in ages and probably never will again. And what it says is simple, damning: _351_.

Misha's lips tremble as his jaw drops open. He lets his hands fall to his middle and sinks them into his _(stupid, stupid, fat, stupid, flabby, fat, enormous, stupid, fat, fat, huge)_ stomach. He mouths the words, _three-hundred and fifty-one_ ; maybe he whispers them, maybe he doesn't, his head spins around too much for him to tell. He closes his eyes and opens them again, as though this might somehow make the numbers change, even just a little bit. That doesn't even remotely work, and Misha could kick himself just for thinking that it might.

Staring down at the green digital read-out with its black little numbers, there's nothing left for Misha to do. His deep breath comes to him in a shudder, and when he lets it out, he cries.


	17. Come On, Come On, No One Can See You Cry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha's nightmares continue, and it's up for debate whether they get better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used: "falling" for hc_bingo (as in, "falling in love" and "falling from grace"); and, "chrysalis" for 100 things ([reference prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560177.html)).

There's nothing that's going to come from this, and certainly nothing good. Misha's certain of it, but the summer proves him wrong. After his first summer at fat camp, Misha comes home standing five feet and seven inches, the same height he was at the start of the summer, and still weighing a good three-hundred and fifteen pounds. Thirty-six pounds isn't anything to scoff at—Amanda and Doctor Blackwood tell Misha so, and so does Doctor Fulton, when he gets his annual school physical—but Misha knows it could be better. Should've been better. It might be a big success for him, in someone else's arbitrary big picture, but he's still huge. Too fat to be allowed. Too fat to let it go without comment.

He's pretty sure that no one at school will even notice that he's any smaller, if it's anything that someone could see from the outside. Because he's still fat-ass, food junky Misha and that's really all that ever matters to anyone. It doesn't matter more than anything else; it matters, period, and nothing else does.

Maybe it is. When Mom, and Dad, and Vicki pick him up near the end of August, Vicki and Dad go on about how good he looks—how much healthier, a lie that he appreciates, for all he knows what they really mean to say. They're really trying to tell him, _You're a little bit thinner than you were in May, and that makes all the difference in how good you're allowed to feel about yourself. Still not great, but it's better than before._ At least Mom doesn't bother sugarcoating things like that: she congratulates Misha on his success, hugs him and lets him hug her in return, and once they're in the car, on the road back down to home, she mentions that she and Raven, her sister, are going to start going to Weight Watchers meetings and Misha's welcome to come along, if he likes.

She says the part about _if he likes_. She says, _of course you're welcome with us, Baby—all that matters is whether or not you want to come along for yourself_. She says that—but she says it with an intonation that makes it clear: Misha doesn't really have a choice in this. He's going to these meetings, whether he likes it or not. Not to mention the appointments with a psychiatrist (Doctor Rhodes) and a nutritionist (Doctor Perkins), who Doctor Blackwood and Sue, the shrink he saw at Camp, recommended to Mom. Apparently, it's not a good idea to go telling people about how he gets so hungry, how he can't stop himself from eating, how it never feels better, not even when he wants to stop, no matter how disgusting he feels after stuffing himself to the gills.

Apparently, it's not a good idea to trust the whole, _you're allowed to talk about your feelings here because this is a safe space_ premise that Camp threw in his face. On some level, he understands what's going on—from their perspective, he has a problem and it's their duty, as his mother or as the myriad health professionals who've had to deal with him, to make sure that that problem gets addressed and handled properly. But just like he could tell what Dad and Vicki really meant to say to him, Misha knows what's really going on here: he can't trust doctors, he can't trust Mom (though he can trust her more than he can other people), he can't trust anyone. They all let him get so fat, so bad before—while blaming him for it, which in fairness, he can't quite deny—and now they're ganging up on him, looking for everything that they can use against him.

So the solution's simple: Misha has to protect himself. He has to take the matter of his weight—of how inherently linked it is with his failure to be anything good—into his own hands. Sue and Doctor Rhodes tell him that what he describes worries them—especially the part where his hunger seems so far beyond his control and linked, on top of that, to any time he gets upset—that there's a rubric of diagnostic criteria, all of which Misha's getting dangerously close to meeting in a textbook example. They don't tell him what they want to diagnose him with—at least, they don't until Doctor Rhodes brings up depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, ADHD, and generalized anxiety—but whatever the unspoken other thing is, Misha guesses that it must be bad. Most likely really, really bad, at that. People only skip over naming things when it's really, really bad.

But the fact that they won't trust him enough to name it? Means that he can't trust them either, even if he guesses that the meds Doctor Rhodes prescribes him help. They don't fix everything; he still gets hungry, the way he did before. The only difference is that he learns to like it. When he gets hungry, he just doesn't eat—most of the time, he doesn't even check to be sure of how many points he might or might not have left for the day. He outright skips the next meal, or the next snack allotted on his plan from Doctor Perkins, and he lets the hunger dig its claws in deeper. To have that empty feeling and to know that he's a better person for not even moving to fill it up, for exercising enough self-control to keep his head about him and stop himself from getting fatter, getting worse, getting enormous all over again? It feels so much better than his binges ever did.

He doesn't stop eating, not entirely, not least because he knows that there are too many people watching for him to pull a stunt like that. He might not be able to trust doctors, but he can predict their behavior, at the very least. And he can trust that they'd know enough to be able to tell if he ever outright stopped eating. And he can reasonably assume that he might end up in an even bigger pile of shit over his total failure to eat anything.

Besides, he's tried that whole skipping meals thing before, and it always wound up with him elbow-deep in another round of shoving food down his throat and unable to stop himself, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how hot his neck got from the shame. And Misha can't risk that. Can't even fathom putting himself in that situation—he's busted his ass, he's worked _so hard_ , and he's not even halfway to his endgame goal yet. He can't screw that up by skipping meals only to binge by way of overcompensating.

And ultimately, Misha's not sure what part of this is worse: the part where he's even _thinking_ that just not eating, period, could help him lose the weight when he knows from experience that it'll do the opposite, or the part where he's not strong enough to try it yet. Maybe it's the part where nobody—not even Vicki—notices that he's miserable enough that he gets high on denying himself food. But that implies that he even needs food in the first place, and Misha's pretty sure that his weight speaks for itself, on that count.

He hasn't been under three-hundred pounds since he was twelve. He doesn't need food. Not Misha. He shouldn't even be allowed to eat—but since nobody else seems to get that, and since Misha's too weak and stupid to control himself when he gets too hungry, he just has to suffer through his meal plans and snacks.

*******

Aside from learning that he can't rely on anyone anymore, the only good thing that comes out of his first Camp Prospect summer comes, paradoxically enough, out of group therapy. Out of a ten-person meeting that they all spend flopped out on beanbag chairs, talking about their feelings.

It's paradoxical because group therapy is the closest thing to Hell that Misha's ever experienced in his still-young life. It's even worse than suffering through meals in the cafeteria at school, just knowing from the hurricane of whispers that someone out in the crowd of his classmates is talking about him, making a joke about him, or otherwise using him as the punchline for something that really isn't all that funny. It's nigh on impossible to get through a session without Sue or Jamie, their supervising counselor to end up handing someone a tissue, or telling someone else that holding back their feelings won't help them in the process of getting well.

Usually, Misha turns out to be the someone else. Which is hardly _his_ fault. How can it be his fault when he doesn't have a problem with his feelings, aside from the fact that they exist? There's nothing for him to talk about, so why should he have to?

His small-group for it has seven other campers in it, though two of them stand out in particular: blue-eyed Matt, who's into science-fiction, and whose eyes are prettier than anything else that Misha's ever seen (which isn't an exaggeration because he says it's not), and who shares Camelot Cabin with Misha and their other bunkmates; and Portia from over in the Arcadia Cabin, who carries herself all hunched in and shrinking, like the whole world's out to get her and if she just doesn't move, maybe it won't see her, maybe she won't have to face it on its own terms, maybe she'll be able to get away from anyone at all who might want to hurt her.

They stick out before the day when Sue and Amy make them all talk about crushes and liking people. Matt sticks out as soon as he mentions liking Star Trek, and Portia sticks out because she's quiet, soft-spoken, but can't hide the way that she looks at Kirsten, the way she almost never looks anywhere else during some sessions and tries to hide it with stray glances to the clock, the floor, the person who's actually speaking. But they stick out more when it's Misha's turn to share, after he insists that he doesn't like anybody. He says this to the ugly, mottled carpet. He shakes his head when Jamie asks if there's not just one girl who's caught his eye. He wishes he curls his legs up onto his beanbag chair and folds his arms over his belly.

But Jamie doesn't buy it, so Misha says again, "There's nobody that I like. At school or anywhere else. Why would I bother with it anyway? Even if I did like anybody, it's not like I could tell them so, so there's not really a point to any of it, is there?"

(At this statement, his lungs twist guiltily around his chest, writhing around and trying to shrivel up, and when he shuts his eyes, leans back against the wall, he sees a smug, smirking, unfairly gorgeous face in the back of his mind—the face of Sarah's friend, Nick, who's decidedly no better than she is.)

"That's a pretty fatalistic attitude for thirteen years old, don't you think?" Jamie says, and when Misha opens his eyes again, he sees her leaning closer to him. "I mean, I wrote my fair share of teenage angsty poetry too—but I had to have guys I liked who didn't like me back to get there."

"It's a _realistic_ attitude." Misha sighs and only fights the impulse to knock his head back into the wall because Sue makes a note in his chart every time he does so. "All liking people ever gets you is hurt, right? That's pretty much the point of what everybody else said, too. Natalie likes a guy who doesn't know that she exists. Chris likes a girl who likes somebody else. And don't you know what liking anybody ever got Carrie White? Drowned in a bucket of pig's blood at the prom. All liking people ever gets you is hurt, so why even bother with it?"

"Carrie White's a fictional character, Misha," Sue tells him like he doesn't know that already, jotting something down and giving him one of her smiles that try to say, _Trust me and let me be your friend_. "You can't judge reality by what happened to Carrie White—not least because real people don't have telekinetic powers. And anyway? I think you're trying to sit on something that means a lot to you, but… if you don't like anybody in a romantic sense? Then why don't you tell us about some of your friends."

"My sister's my only friend," he says without hesitation. "Everybody else at school is fake. Not to be Holden Caulfield about it or anything, but they're a bunch of phonies." He means to just let that be that, but Sue has to go and ask what makes them all so fake: "Well, for one thing? The only people who don't ever try to screw me over only talk to me because they talk to Vicki and she makes them talk to me. And she makes them do it without treating me like crap. Which is what everybody else does. Which is probably a pretty big reason why I don't like any of them—and what Sarah pulled on Vicki to get back at her just makes it worse."

"Your sister sounds very protective of you," says Jamie. "So, what did Sarah pull on her, what was she getting back at her _for_ , and what did _you_ do about it?"

Misha sighs and says that Sarah was trying to get back at Vicki for standing up for Misha, duh—but why the Hell are they even bothering to talk about Vicki right now? Since when is Vicki's fight with Sarah something that they're supposed to care about here? It's got nothing to do with Misha being a fat slob who probably deserves all of the name-calling and the crap he gets whenever he eats something. "Besides, I don't even know how she found out about Vicki's crush on Alyson—that's Sarah's best friend, Alyson—but she did, so she told, and then all of a sudden, Vicki's not just fat-ass Misha's cranky feminist sister. Now, she's a dyke, and a freak, and a carpet-muncher, whatever that even _means_ , and everyone ever has _proof_ about it, too."

His heart's pounding so hard, so fast, that Misha feels it behind his eyes. Hears it ringing in his ears, so loudly that it almost drowns out Jamie's next question for him—which is just her asking him what _he_ did about the situation. He doesn't even know what the point of that question thinks it is. "What _could_ I do about it?" he splutters, and loses track of things enough that he knocks his head into the wall. "I tried standing up for her, or telling people to shut up because it's none of their business, but she wouldn't let me tell Mom and Dad, and it's not like anybody's ever going to listen to me, anyway. Nick seemed like he might've, for a while, but that didn't last."

"Who's Nick?" Portia pipes up—and for a moment, everyone just blinks at her, because not only has she beaten Sue and Jamie to the punch, but she's gone and found something to say without being asked to speak, at that. She shrugs and brushes a clump of sunny blonde bangs away from her face. "I just mean… I didn't want to interrupt or anything, but I got kind of confused and thought I missed something, so… who's Nick?"

"You didn't really miss anything." Misha shrugs. Slouches back into the wall again. "Anyway, Nick's just this guy?"

"But is he _just this guy, you know_?" Matt snickers, grins, and even though Misha knows he shouldn't go along with it—even though Sue tells Matt to please keep his _Hitchhiker's Guide_ references to a minimum—even though it's probably some kind of disruption and breaking a bunch of the rules of group therapy, Misha nods, says that Nick's definitely just this guy, y'know.

"He's Sarah's other best friend, and… I don't know? I keep hoping that he's better than she is, or not so much of a truly awful person as she is, or something like that, but it's nothing I can _prove_ and he probably isn't, so…" He huffs by way of trailing off, but picks up again when Jamie asks him to explain _why_ he keeps hoping that Nick won't be such a bully: "I don't _know_? Because he's smart—but so is Sarah, and so is Alyson, so that's not really important. And because I know he volunteers at the local vet's—and yeah, the vet's his uncle, but he still wants to be a vet when he grows up, so that counts for something, right?"

Misha pauses for a moment. Sighs again. Could probably drag this pausing out a bit, just to clear his head and shut himself up—but he's in full-on rant mode, now, with no hope of stopping his goddamned mouth from running the way it does. And the way it runs is like he's stepped outside himself and, in so doing, lost all say in the matter: "And sometimes, I hope he's really better than all of that, because sometimes? Like, some very, very rare sometimes, he smiles at me like he doesn't totally hate me. But it's pretty clear he still does. And not just because he's Sarah's friend and she kind of specially hates me, too."

This, too, Misha would be content as a cucumber to just leave alone, but Jamie just has to go and ask what Nick does to make Misha think he hates him. "Well, he almost never calls me by my name, that's a pretty big thing, isn't it? And then, when he does, it's got some kind of insult in front of it. We got a new transfer student around Valentine's Day and he actually thought my parents named me Fat Misha because of Nick. I'm just waiting for teachers to start calling me that, too, because he says it, and Sarah says it, and Alyson doesn't say it, but a bunch of other kids do, so… there's that. And it gets worse. Or better, if you think like that. But I think that it gets worse?"

 _Shut up, Misha—for God's sake, just shut up. Nobody wants to hear about this. It's all boring, and it's stupid, and why the Hell are we still talking at these people? **Shut up**._ "He throws papers at my head in class and study hall. He always starts the laughing at me in gym class. He likes to pick me first for dodgeball teams, then tells everyone to get me out first on purpose so the team can win—like I wouldn't be the first one out anyway. Sometimes, he pretends to be my friend for a week, then tells everyone all the stuff I tell him—and I should know better, because he's done this like fifty times, but… I still want him to be better than that, and I stupidly think that he could ever like me in any way, so I keep letting him walk all over me. Pretty stupid, isn't it?"

Should be stupid enough to silence any claims about Misha's intelligence, at least. He thinks so, anyway. But, once again, Jamie has to go and ask him to elaborate. Even worse than that, she asks him how this makes him _feel_ : "It makes me feel like I'm two inches tall. It makes me _feel_ like I'm the world's biggest idiot. It makes me **_feel_** kind of pretty _terrible_ , which makes me feel hungry, which just makes me feel about ten or twenty times **worse**. How else _should_ it make me feel?"

"It shouldn't make you feel like anything but what it does, Misha," Sue tells him, _sotto voce_ , giving him That Look again, the same one that she gave him the first time he said that when he's even a little bit upset, he gets so hungry that he can't see straight. "The purpose of therapy—both group therapy and individual therapy—isn't to learn how you _should_ feel, because such a thing doesn't exist. It's about learning coping mechanisms to help you deal with the feeling that you do have."

(He'll see this as a lie later. Even now, in the nightmare that forces him to look back in revulsion on all of this, Misha realizes how much of a lie that is—of course there are things that people _should_ feel, of course there are specific ways that he's _supposed_ to feel. Worse yet, he still hasn't learned how to cope with these unfair, totally bullshit things they call emotions.)

"And aside from that?" Jamie says, and shoots Misha a small smile. "I think we've stumbled on why you don't want to let us think you like anybody. It's because you like Nick, isn't it?"

Misha shrugs, nods, curls tighter around himself—as tight as he can get, getting his legs as close to his stupid, fat stomach as they'll go. "I know I shouldn't," he mumbles. "But I guess I do anyway. Because I'm an _idiot_ , and because he's _pretty_ , and because I really, really want him to like me back, I pretty much just take what he gives me and it makes me feel like _crap_ , but at least he's paying attention to me, right? At least he doesn't _ignore_ me, the way he does other kids. At least I'm _kind of_ special to him, even if it's in a _bad_ way."

With a half-dead groan, Misha knocks his head against the wall again. "And even if I were skinny enough for him to like me, it wouldn't make any difference because he probably isn't gay. Or any kind of into other guys. And it's not like I can tell anybody that I am, either, because I get enough crap for being a big fat-ass. That's just what I need, something else to single me out and make me even more of a freak. I mean, they probably expect it after that whole stupid mess with Vicki, but… I don't need any more of that. I just _don't_."

"I don't think you're a freak," Portia says, and waits for Misha to make eye-contact with her before she picks up again. "Not that it makes any difference, either, but… I'm gay, too? Or a lesbian, if that's really different enough from gay, or… whatever people call it? I've tried liking boys like that, but something just feels so wrong about it… and I can't tell the girl I like, either, not because she picks on me, but… what's the point? It's not worth everybody finding out when she's probably never going to like me anyway, right?"

"Same here," comes Matt's chiming-in, and in some vague show of respect for the rules, he raises his hand, pretends that it's been up for the whole time. "With the whole… 'I'm gay, I like guys, can't tell the person I like because I'm too different enough already' thing. I was kind of hoping that you or Paget would get all… long-winded so everyone would be grateful when I didn't have a lot to say after you, because… I wouldn't have even admitted it here, if not for you? So… thanks for that, Misha? I mean it, too. Thank you. For being brave enough to say it first?"

"I wasn't brave," Misha says with a huff, scratching at the back of his neck, ducking his head as though this hides the hot, pink blush that rises to his cheeks. "I'm just a freaking motormouth. It's kind of a problem?"

For all he talks himself down over it, though—and for all he'll realize, come college, that he's actually bisexual—Misha can't help the little smile that he gets over this. It must be some freak accident of fate that he, Matt, and Portia all wound up in the same therapy group. But as far as freak accidents go, Misha can think of things that are infinitely worse than this one. All things considered? He'll take this one and be glad for it, too. It's more than enough, just knowing that he's slightly less alone out here.

*******

Before his sophomore year, after two summers at Camp Prospect, Misha stands about five-nine and weighs in around two-seventy. He starts the summer at three-hundred, even, though. He's lost a good fifteen pounds in doing Weight Watchers with Mom and Aunt Raven, so getting down to two-seventy isn't a big deal. It's only thirty pounds out of all the weight that he has left to lose. Definitely not as big a deal as anyone wants Misha to think. Pretty much everything is a bigger deal than how he's slightly less of a big fat-ass now.

The visible results of his so-called progress aren't even all that much to care about. So what, Misha's started to love running, even though his flabby thighs still chafe against each other. The issue of his thighs hasn't gone away, yet. They're still like tree trunks made of soft and pale flesh, more than the muscle that he could have there, if he just keeps running. His belly's getting smaller, too, he guesses, but it's still a round, blubbery mass, and he still can't get any clothes that don't have the words _extra_ or _large_ scrawled on the size labels. The verdict's pretty obvious: no matter how much work he's done so far, Misha's still too fat, still impossibly enormous, still disgusting.

So, yeah, he's pretty sure that there's nothing to write home about, where his weight loss is concerned. Everything else in the entire world is a bigger deal than the fact that Misha's slightly less huge, slightly less repulsive—not even pretty much everything else, but _literally_ everything else.

For example? There's things like why Matt's back for another summer with him—and like why Misha would even think of things in those terms. As though Matt, for all they're friends and for all they're inseparable while at camp, would make himself come back here just for Misha. Matt hardly needs to be here, in the first place. He's five-foot-ten at the start of summer, and okay, in all due fairness, it's not like Matt isn't kind of chubby. At two-sixty-one, he's gained back some of the weight he lost last summer—apparently, it's not that uncommon; Misha's even kind of special for keeping up his weight loss away from camp. Matt's got full hips and a fuller ass, and a pudgy belly that's visible under any t-shirt that he tries to wear and makes a spectacle of itself when, at the lake, Matt goes swimming without a t-shirt.

But even so, Matt is _pretty_. Like, ridiculously pretty. Even though he still has his misbegotten, self-abusive little crush on Nick, Misha can't do or say anything against the obvious sort of pretty that Matt is. His high cheekbones are clear, despite the extra fat rounding out his face. His eyes could cut diamonds. He doesn't even _need_ to lose the weight—maybe because of health reasons, maybe because he just kind of wants to, maybe because of all kinds of things… But Matt's pretty. Matt's _gorgeous_. And it's completely ridiculous for Misha to think, on any level, that Matt cares about him, or spending thirteen weeks in close proximity to one another, or how they're bunkmates for another summer. It's ridiculous to think that Matt cares even a little.

Of course, it's pretty obvious why _Misha_ cares so much. If it's not clear when he sighs and can't stop watching Matt saunter away, if it's not clear when he's always leaning closer to Matt like he wants to say, _that's so fascinating, please go on_ (regardless of where they are and who might or might not be watching), if it's not obvious when Misha steals little touches, nudges too close into Matt's personal space or "accidentally" brushes their fingers into each other—then it's pretty fucking blatant when Misha finds himself in cold shower after cold shower, with his hand wrapped tight around his dick and Matt's name catching on his sun-chapped lips, images of Matt flashing through his mind.

It's only by some miracle that Misha never lets himself slip up and actually whisper Matt's name. Some miracle, or possibly the knowledge that there's no way Matt would ever waste his time with some loser like Misha—that he wouldn't do so romantically, at least, since it's obvious enough that he'd waste his time platonically. But that's all just pointless semantics, really.

*******

At least, that's what Misha thinks. As with many things, he ends up being wrong—but in fairness to himself, he never could've reasonably seen what happens coming.

Spin The Bottle is just one of those things that Misha assumes he's never going to deal with, ever. It's a party game for pretty people who might actually want to kiss each other—not for people like Misha. Which is to say, _not for people who can't even hold it together enough to fake like they're even vaguely normal underneath it all, despite how fucking fat they are, how much they need to just stay at this camp forever_. Not to mention the part where it's a co-ed game and Misha can't imagine what kissing any of the girls would be like.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to wonder for too long. Jennifer and Kristen kiss, to Rob and Tom's cat-calling and applause. Matt nudges the bottle off of him so Portia can kiss Paget instead of getting forced to kiss a boy. Rob ends up all but choking Natalie, because both of them know that tongues are involved in kissing, somehow, but neither of them know what to do with them. And when it's Misha's turn, the empty plastic water bottle twirls around the group at lightning speed before it eventually slows down, starts wobbling, comes to a stop—and points at Matt.

Not even at the vague area between him and Paget, or the vague area between him and Liz, or sort of, kind of in his general direction, but otherwise still up for debate. The bottle's neck points right at Matt, and nowhere else.

Misha shudders, chest heaving as his gasp splutters down his windpipe, tries to catch and trip itself up on the inside of his throat. He looks from the bottle up to Matt, then back down to the bottle, then back up at Matt—and just in time for Matt to chuckle and say, _Well, come on, Pretty Boy—it looks like it's all you and me, right?_ And Misha jerks outside of himself for a moment—he watches himself clamber up onto his knees. He watches himself take a series of deep breaths and lean across the circle, edging closer and closer to Matt's half-smirk, half-smile, the playful glint in his eyes.

For all it takes a moment to really sink in, Misha crashes back into his own body when their lips collide. He's kissing Matt. He's _kissing_ Matt. _He is **kissing Matt**_—and it's not just Misha pecking his lips into Matt's or moving his mouth against Matt's and hoping for the best. Matt's moving his lips against Misha's too, then dragging his tongue along Misha's teeth—and between the barely palatable dinner and how dry Misha's mouth got on his after-dinner run, he can't imagine that he tastes any kind of good—but Matt keeps kissing him. Coaxing him deeper into the kiss. Cupping Misha's double-chin and brushing his thumb down Misha's chubby cheek. Sucking on Misha's lower lip like the air in Misha's lungs is made of gold.

When they separate, it takes Misha a while to get his breath back, much less to really grasp what happened. He and Matt don't move out of the circle, so the game can't go on, and after a long moment of blinking at him, Misha tells Matt, "…I. I've never kissed anybody before?"

And all Matt does is smile, ghost his thumb down Misha's cheek again. "Well… I hope your first kiss didn't suck?" he says. "Glad I didn't know it was your first beforehand, though. My performance anxiety would've screwed up everything."

As he settles back into his place between Natalie and Seth, Misha sighs, wishes he had the balls to tell Matt that he doesn't believe that for a second. There's no way that Matt could kiss someone badly. No way at all.

*******

Before his junior year, in his third summer of enduring everything that Camp Prospect can throw at him, Misha's up to five-eleven (where he eventually stops growing), and at the summer's final weigh-in, he tips the scales at two-twenty-six. Sure, he's down forty-two pounds from where he was in May, and he'd consider that a pretty huge success—the same way that Matt and Portia do, when they hug him goodbye; the same way that Vicki does, when she pounces on his shoulders and squeals about who was the pretty guy with the blue eyes and the jawline, is he Misha's summer fling, is he a bunkmate, or is he something more—she bets he's something more, because how could anyone resist that.

Except that he's been on a plateau in that same position and it's driving him up the fucking wall. For two weeks now, he's weighed in at two-twenty-six—and it's not like he's been slacking off. He eats less than they give out at mealtimes; he works out harder than the counselors tell him to do; he gets up early to go out running with Amanda and Jamie. He should be down to two-twenty, maybe two-twenty-one by now, instead of stuck at two-twenty-six, shouldn't he?

That's not what Misha dwells on, though, during the entire drive back home. No, it's not, because what he has to dwell on is so much worse than the situation with his weight. It's more like… how he and Matt spent the entire summer making out, making starry-eyed faces at each other over mealtimes (which might or might not have anything to do with how Misha lost so much weight while Matt was lucky to lose twenty-two pounds). How going gaga over Matt made Misha even less inclined to eat—because Matt deserves the best, and how can Misha be that when he's fat—while Matt lost track of how many times he took things off of Misha's plate because Misha just wasn't hungry (or, well, he _was_ , but it felt so much better to him than being full or eating anything).

How, because he's so entirely pathetic, Misha still thought about Nick sometimes—moreover, how he thought about Nick insulting him, trailing his fingers down Misha's cheeks, biting and tearing his teeth at Misha's lips, and telling him how disgusting he is while Matt's hands caressed his chunky waist and held his fat stomach or his fleshy hips like they were something precious, something valuable. How Misha could brush the backs of his pudgy fingers down Matt's face and hear Matt telling him that he's so beautiful, then kiss him again and go deeper into Matt's mouth this time, all while wishing that Nick would be the one to kiss him instead, that Nick would tell him how fat and awful he is, how much he sucks. How, obsessive, fixated little worm that he is, Misha can still be into Nick at all, after everything he's ever done.

How he can even think about someone who's only ever been so terrible to him while tangled up and making out with someone who treats him like he matters.

The worst part, though, came at the end of summer fling, the annual dance that the counselors put on for the older campers. Matt and Misha dance for a while, hang around with Portia and Kirsten (who dance with each other in full view of everyone), and if anyone has anything to say about it, then the counselors shut them right up about it. They make it through a few faster songs and two slow dances, and Misha wonders if this is what homecoming and prom are like for normal kids, aside from the humidity and the mid-August heat—since he's never going to end up at one anyway, this might be the closest thing he ever gets to a _normal_ high school experience. He might as well appreciate it, for all he ends up dancing in a t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts that he's belted tightly and that hang on his pudgy hips more than he thought possible when he got to camp at the end of May.

Eventually, though, Matt and Misha sneak off—nowhere special, just to one of the picnic tables where the music's not so loud and they can actually hear themselves think. They straddle a bench on the same side of the table; they lean in toward each other; they kiss each other gently, gingerly, as though they haven't been attached at the lips all freaking summer, as though they need to puzzle each other out all over again. Matt's hand finds its way to Misha's cheek, the same way that it's done so many times before, and the next kiss that Misha goes for, he doesn't get to have. He doesn't get it because Matt pulls back, just a little bit, and lips at Misha's (slightly sharper, or so it seems) jaw instead, presses a nipping kiss to some of the lingering flesh along his chin.

Then, he pulls back enough to look Misha in the eye, brushes his thumb down Misha's cheek as he says, "I really admire you, you know that, Misha?"

Matt says this so easily—says it as though it's self-evident, as though Misha has no reason for his mouth to fall open or for the jerk he gets around his bellybutton, the sudden sensation that he must've woken up in Wonderland. Shaking his head, he mutters, "I mean, I… I didn't know that, no? …You mean that in a way where, like, you're just trying really hard to be Mister Darcy, right? Because I like _you_ a lot more than I like anybody out of Jane Austen, so you really don't have to do that."

Matt snickers fondly and steals another kiss, sucks gently on Misha's lower lip, holds him in this kiss until breathing gets to be an issue, until Misha whines for want of oxygen. And once he's caught his breath, Matt tells Misha, "You're really cute when you act like you've got no idea what's going on, Boy Genius."

"I really _don't_ have an idea what's going on, though?" _Why do we even need to go over this? Why would I understand you admiring me in the first place? It kind of blatantly makes no fucking sense, Matt._

With a sigh, Matt explains himself: "Well, in that case… I admire you because you're really dedicated, you know? To why we're supposed to be here and what we're supposed to be doing. I mean, me? I'm mostly here because my parents wanted me to be here—they got worried because of some family medical history, they didn't want me to get hit with the same bullets that my Uncle, Mom, and Grandma did. I'm mostly here to put their minds at ease—but you? You're really here for yourself, aren't you?"

Misha supposes that he has no idea what Matt means by that. Mostly because—and he doesn't say this part, because Matt might judge him, or worry, or stop thinking so highly of him—it's never occurred to him that it's possible to be at Camp Prospect and lose weight and do it for anyone but yourself. Maybe he wound up here because his parents made him come, but he only ever succeeded with anything because he stopped caring about them (sort of), because he stopped trusting them (about anything involving his weight or his eating), because he committed to doing something for himself (because no one else could possibly do it for him—that's what the counselors and therapists have always said).

"It's just really amazing to me, y'know?" Matt goes on—probably because Misha's completely gobsmacked and couldn't stop staring at Matt or say something if someone paid him. "You're so _dedicated_ , and you really care about your health, and you've really put yourself into the whole process of getting healthy and doing better for _yourself_ … You inspire me, Misha."

Even here and now—even some several miles away from camp and more than twenty-four hours since Matt had to go and say that—Misha's heart plummets out of his chest and twists guiltily around the pit of his stomach, just from how much it hurts to remember that. Just from how much Misha knows that Matt has too much faith in him, not to mention having entirely the wrong idea about Misha. Whatever he must've done to get Matt confused, Misha needs to atone for it—maybe he'll need to get a salad for dinner and only eat part of it. Maybe he'll need to push himself on the treadmill until his muscles pump lactic acid. Whatever he ends up doing, though, he'll need to get started as soon as he gets home and gets his things unpacked. It's that important. His sin is that great and he needs to do what little he can to fix it.

He'd atone so much more if he could just tell Matt all the ways he's wrong, but he can't explain how wrong Matt is, or… Well, Misha _could_ , but he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to lose what Matt's misconceptions give him.

It's a simple issue, as far as he can see it. No matter what Matt thinks about him, Misha knows the truth: he's not even a little bit dedicated to getting healthy; he's only ever cared about getting thin. He doesn't care that much about improving his health and he doesn't give a damn if he lives or dies. All he wants it to be perfect—and how can he be, when he's fat? Moreover, how can Misha be perfect when he's more than content to let Matt think these outrageous things about him, all in the name of just getting to feel like somebody wants him back for once?

He'll just need to strike back against his diet, against every little place where he's fucked up. He'll just need to get thin enough to compensate for his terrible personality.


	18. Who You Are And What You Could.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the nightmares get worse, Misha worries, Vicki worries, Jensen worries, and there are hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the original prompt, this chapter uses, "bites," "humiliation," "counseling," "severe/life-threatening illness," and, "depression" as a single-line extra for hc_bingo; and, "shattered mirror" for 100 things ([reference prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560177.html)).

"Misha, what the Hell do you _mean_ , you dropped out of the play?"

"I mean, it's pretty clear what I mean, isn't it? Am I speaking Greek or something? Anyway, it's not like I was ever supposed to get the part in the first place…"

Misha sighs at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, switches his phone over to speaker mode, and sets it on the counter. Thank God Vicki's not at home right now. She's got some meeting for the Girl Scout troop she mentors over at the elementary school, and Mom and Dad won't get home from work for hours, yet. Misha's free to multitask with his phone-call and something more important. He's free to raise his voice enough for Matt to hear him.

It's not that he doesn't care about Matt or what Matt has to say. And it's not that he doesn't care about the conversation he and Matt are enmeshed in, at the moment. It's just that there are too many _things_ all racketing around his mind and taking a moment to scrutinize himself always clears his head of the clutter. Even if it's just a little bit of help, he needs that, at the moment. He needs some kind of clarity—like the sort of clarity that comes from reminding him how Sarah's right, how she was right at the start of this whole mess of crap, how Misha never should've gone out for the _Much Ado About Nothing_ auditions in the first place.

"How can you even say that you weren't supposed to get the part? I mean, you got the part, didn't you? That pretty much seals the deal that you were supposed to get it, at least from where I'm sitting about this whole thing," Matt says, giving Misha some exasperated sigh, sounding for all the world like, if they were talking to each other in person, he'd be giving Misha some long, sad look, knotting up his brow and making his enormous, Disney princess eyes look that much bigger, that much sadder.

For what it's worth, Misha's very happy that they're _not_ talking to each other in person. It's terrible of him, but for once, he's _glad_ that Matt lives in Chicago and can't just walk around the block to corner Misha and demand an explanation. It's so much easier to lie to a cellphone. It's so much easier, with Matt being several hundred miles away, to listen and talk back to him, but to also huff, and lean closer to the mirror, and pinch at his still too chubby cheeks or the remnants of his still pretty fat looking double-chin. If Matt were actually here, Misha would have to make eye-contact, and Matt would be able to see all of the little _tells_ that might say he's lying, and Misha doesn't doubt that Matt would take issue with the way he palms at and jostles his belly.

Or his tummy. His stomach. Whatever Misha should call it, these days—he has no idea. Because it's still so weird, adjusting to how much smaller he is than he's been, and on top of that, he's lost another ten pounds since they got out of Camp last summer. But, on the other hand, his stupid stomach's still too fat. It still sags over his belts and the waistbands of his jeans, just like how his hips still have fleshy, almost feminine curves to them, and just like how his thighs might not be the size of tree trunks and he might not waddle on them anymore, but they're decidedly still flabby, and they still chafe up against each other (enough that Misha's sure they'll wear out the inseams of his jeans before any other part of them wears out), and they're still so hateful and disgusting that Misha wants to puke, just from looking at them.

Maybe puking wouldn't be that bad, either. He's sat through health class after health class about eating disorders—both at school and over the past three summers at Camp Prospect—and puking seems to work out pretty well for the crying bulimic girls in all the videos. Of course, given Misha's luck, there's no way he'd be able to hide it from anyone, and then there'd be all kinds of investigation into the parts of his life that he keeps quiet from everybody, and then everyone would try to stop him from doing what he does to himself in the name of being thin, of being perfect.

"Misha, I'm _serious_ ," Matt snaps. He breaks out a stern tone of voice that Misha never would've guessed he had in him, too. Misha must've gone quiet for too long—and as he wriggles out of his t-shirt, Matt goes on: "Whatever happened to, 'I want to go out for one of the school plays, I think it'd be really fun to play someone on the stage, but I never let myself do it'—"

"Well, technically, I _did_ go out for it," Misha points out, pinching at the rolls of fat on his midsection and trying not to think about the group therapy session where he said almost exactly what Matt's attributing to it. What's the point in thinking about it or the desire underpinning it? He can still catch too much flab between his fingers. He'll need to put more attention into this problem area. "I _did_ go out for them, though. I went to the auditions, and I read for Benedick, and I _survived_ reading a scene of his with _Sarah_ , of all the possible Beatrices I could've gotten partnered with—"

"And then you dropped out because of _why_ , exactly?" Matt pauses for long enough that Misha gets to suppose he quit the play because he didn't really see the point in making an ass of himself to the tune of Shakespeare—besides, with his AP classes, the standardized tests he has to handle to get into college, and starting a gay-straight alliance with Vicki, he's probably too busy anyway. "Misha, your director would make time for all of that—didn't he have you guys fill out a form about your other obligations or something?"

"There was a space for it on the audition registration form thing, yeah… I thought I'd be counted out of getting any kind of major part because of my other workloads, anyway, or else I wouldn't have even gone through with it."

Not that it matters. Sighing, Misha sinks his hands into his stomach. As he loses track of his fingertips, Sarah's words ring out in his head, clear as a bell: _What are you even doing here, Misha? We're doing **Much Ado About Nothing** for the spring play, not **Hairspray** … Are you seriously reading for Benedick, Misha? You know that he's supposed to be a soldier, right? Like, actively **in the military** … I'm not trying to be a **bitch**? I'm just saying, I mean… an audience's suspension of disbelief only goes so far, you know? Even **if** the costume shop has something in your size, do you really think that anyone's going to buy you as a soldier when you **look** like the Pillsbury Doughboy, Misha…_ And he screws up his face, digs harder at his flesh, because he _knows_ that Sarah's right.

He doesn't even _need_ to know it because the truth is pretty obvious. It's spelled out all over the round, pudgy, _disgusting_ thing that protrudes around his waistline.

"Sarah had something to do with you dropping out, didn't she?" Matt says, breaking out his, _I'm very concerned about the way that you are acting, not to mention the events that you are telling me about_ voice. Misha can't help rolling his eyes at it, but that doesn't stop Matt from going on at him: "She _did_ , didn't she? You let her push you around, and talk about you like you're nothing again, and talk you out of doing something that would make you _happy_ , didn't you? Did she _tell_ you to drop out? Come on, Misha, what'd she say to make you drop out?"

"She didn't _say_ anything, Matt, _God_." The lie trips off of Misha's tongue so easily—but, then again, he lies to almost everyone, about almost everything, and more than anything else, he lies about his feelings, and his eating habits, and the rationale behind his actions. His lungs writhe around a little bit—his conscience kicks at the back of his skull, reminding him that this is _Matt_ and he can _trust_ Matt—but all the truth he manages to spit out is pretty limited: "I mean, reading opposite her wasn't that great? And she got cast as Beatrice, which was going to be awkward as Hell, if I stayed. But she didn't really _say_ anything?"

_Just that I'm too fat to be allowed, and too fat for everything in the costume shop, and just too **fat** for everything—but that's nothing we didn't already know, so what's the point in getting upset about it? I don't see a point, do you?_

"Hey, so how about we talk about something that sucks less than how I'm too busy for the play." Misha huffs, has to change the subject before he goes and potentially says something he'll regret later. "I'm probably heading back to camp again this summer—I swear to God, it's like my body is _actively resisting_ my—how about you?"

There. Something of mutual interest that won't make the pit of Misha's stomach twist around like he just kicked a newborn kitten. Something that won't leave him feeling like he's a humanized case of stomach flu. Something that makes Matt sigh like he's been carrying the world on his shoulders—which decidedly wasn't Misha's intention in the slightest, but on the other hand, it serves Matt right for trying to make Misha's decisions for him. Misha regrets bringing it up even less when Matt gets talking again:

"Yeah, no, I'm pretty definitely going back… There's basically no way that I could get out of it, at this point. I'm almost back up to where I was at the start of last summer. At least, I was getting pretty close—I was back up to two-thirty-two, anyway, last time I checked out the business end of a scale, and that was… shit, almost six, maybe eight weeks ago. …Hang on, let me go check again—I'll take you with me, but yeah, just a sec."

Misha bites down on his lower lip, tries to choke back a shudder—and at the very least, if Misha doesn't succeed, if Matt hears him, then Matt's polite enough not to say anything. As he turns around and slouches into the counter, as he slides his jeans down without knowing why, Misha can picture everything about how Matt might look right now. All six feet of him must be plush and delectable—his soft, chubby belly's probably pushing out against one of the new t-shirts he got after getting down to two-twelve (from two-thirty-four) last summer… It'll be snug on him now, no doubt, hugging every lush curve on Matt's midsection and riding up ever-so-slightly and maybe even showing off the hollow of his bellybutton, either because it rides up high enough or because it's so tight on him that Matt can't even think of hiding that.

And Misha bets Matt got new jeans, too—Misha got new jeans after last summer, so Matt probably did. But while Misha's fit him looser, hang on his frame a little bit more, Matt's probably doing his up underneath his belly because they're too small for his waist anymore. And that, no doubt, makes more of a spectacle of his stomach—his warm, perfectly round little stomach… Misha can hear Matt saying something or other about how his parents are starting to worry about how he'll do in college, and if there isn't something more going on that keeps him from keeping weight off, and whether or not he'll fall victim to the Freshman Fifteen (or more like the Freshman Forty; with how he puts on weight, it could even go up to the Freshman Fifty)—but the words themselves… It's some kind of miracle that Misha makes out any of them. It's a miracle that he hears anything properly, that he's aware of anything beyond palming at his boxer-briefs.

It's not that he isn't listening, far from it. It's just that, while he's trying to pay attention to Matt, something hot drops into the pit of Misha's stomach and curls itself around his insides. It writhes around and pulls itself taut, then unfurls in a flash when Matt announces that, "Oh shit, yeah, I… I'm back up to two-forty-two… I'm _definitely_ heading back to camp this summer, so let's just hope we end up back in the same cabin again, yeah?"

"Yeah…" Misha manages weakly, gasping, choking back on a whine as he feels his dick get hard. "Here's hoping and all that."

They could go on for a while yet, but not long after they get a fix on how much weight Matt's put on, his sisters need some help with something and he has to say goodbye. Misha's never been more thankful for interloping siblings—Jesus Christ, what in the Hell is _wrong_ with him? He's getting hard from the fact that Matt's gained back all the weight he lost last summer. Wrapping his hand around his cock to the thought of Matt eating all the things that Misha can't—ice cream and cookies and fried chicken and French fries and triple-layer fudge cake. Jerking himself off to the thought of how much bigger Matt must be than he was, how the extra almost-thirty pounds must look on him, how it'd feel to have Matt's weight bearing down on him…

When he comes, Misha has Matt's name on his lips and the thought of Matt licking chocolate frosting off his pudgy fingers kicking around the back of his head. All that follows it up is the sense that he must be about the worst friend in the world.

*******

Misha starts the summer at two-thirteen—down another five pounds from when he went out for Benedick—and when Matt shows up at camp, his weight's climbed all the way up to two-forty-eight. He's soft all over, with his belly rounding out more than Misha expected and his ass straining the integrity of his shorts more than a little bit. During a stray lonely moment in Camelot Cabin—when they get to steal time for a quick round of, _hey, nice to see you after several months, how's it going_ making out, when Matt ends up on top of Misha (straddling his hips and knocking his plush, full stomach down into Misha's tummy)—Misha feels every single pound of difference between them. All thirty-five of them.

Wriggling around underneath of Matt—which makes him laugh, which in turn makes his stomach bounce and jiggle that much more—Misha can't help thinking how this might feel if Matt got even bigger. How he might get to feel underneath of Matt if he weighed in at two- _fifty_ -six or two-seventy-five—how much more his belly might jiggle and how much heavier it might feel, battering down on Misha's own. Misha can't help thinking all of this because right here, underneath of Matt, it's the first time that Misha's ever felt small in his life—which makes him kiss Matt that much harder, that much fiercer, that much more insistently. He bucks his hips up into Matt's just for the sake of feeling more and more of him.

They go even further than this after the fourth week's weigh-in. Matt's been slow and steady in his weight loss, getting down to two-forty even in this first month, despite claiming everything that Misha doesn't eat at mealtimes, but as Misha yanks him around by the elbow, as he drags Matt behind the cabin with the offices, he couldn't care less how much Matt weighs, how his belly's getting slightly smaller and how he feels like so much less when Misha pushes him back into the nearest wall, slithers up against his body in the shadows where people will have a harder time seeing them. He kisses Matt, hard and fast, biting at his lower lip without concern for whether or not he might rip it in two—at least Matt's pudgy fingers still drop to Misha's hips and hold him like he matters.

At least he groans and whines in that way that says he loves what Misha's doing. At least, in between the rounds of guttural syllables he growls into Misha's mouth, Matt manages to get out there that he loves this, loves Misha.

Aside from the words, he leans down into the kiss and knocks his hips up into Misha's when Misha grinds against him. And aside from that action, it's not long before Misha feels Matt's cock get hard, press into his leg—which is getting increasingly toned up, increasingly less flabby—Misha hopes that Matt can feel how much work Misha's put into getting his legs to look so good, feel his developing muscle just like how Misha can sink his fingers into the rolls of fat along Matt's hips, trace his fingertips along the pudgy lower curve of Matt's belly. Every day, Misha gets closer to having a thigh-gap like he's always wanted and that makes Misha's chest light up more than anything else, makes his heart flutter even more than the affectionate way Matt gropes his ass.

He kisses Matt again instead of saying so, but the flutter he gets from Matt's hand on his ass is a guilty one, complete with his guts twisting all around up on themselves. Guilty because Misha should be thinner than this before letting anybody get this close to him—not that they can go all the way, not least because they don't have lube and, more than that, anybody could come along and see them fucking—but Misha should still be thinner before letting himself get into any kind of sexual situations with anybody… But he never thought that he'd get to where he is, now. He never thought he'd see two-zero-zero on the scale's digital read-out ever again—he hasn't seen it since he was nine or maybe ten—never mind seeing the numbers that he saw today.

He sucks on Matt's lower lip until he's sure that his lungs are going to wither up and die inside his chest. And after that, it's all a game of trailing his fingers down Matt's chest, down the curve of his belly (then up it again, and down again), down past the elastic waistbands of his shorts and boxer-briefs. Matt gasps when Misha curls his hand up around his cock, jerks his hand up Matt's shaft then kneads his thumb into the base—their mouths are barely a breath's width from each other as Misha licks Matt's teeth, nips at his lip, and asks him if he wants some more. When Matt says yes, Misha lets his eyes dart away from him, left and right and left again, just to make sure that no one's coming, that no one can see as he writhes against Matt, as he slithers down Matt's front and noses at Matt's belly, at his erection.

One-ninety-eight. One, nine, eight. One-hundred and ninety-eight pounds—according to the scale, Misha's lost four pounds since the last weigh-in, he's under two-hundred for the first time in seven years, and he can't even be happy about it without fumbling to his knees, without nudging Matt's shorts away, without licking up Matt's shaft and working his lips around Matt's cock. He can't feel good about it without this salty reminder of how Matt wants him—how Matt's even wanted him since he was fat—how someone out there actually wants him, despite the laundry list of reasons why he shouldn't.

*******

"Come on, you can take one for yourself, no one's gonna catch us…"

"I'm good with my water." Misha shakes his head again, holds up his free hand and his plastic bottle to say that he really doesn't want a drink. "I freaking _need_ it to get the taste of that swill out of my mouth."

It's the night of their last end-of-summer fling, they've stolen away again (once more, to another picnic table where they can actually hear themselves think), and Matt's gone and stolen a couple bottles of beer out of the counselors' cabins. How the Hell he broke in there, Misha has no idea and, frankly, he doesn't want to know. That might make him into an accomplice in whatever the Hell Matt might get taken to task on—as though anyone with any sense would bother, when they're going home in the morning. Besides, Matt's assertion that Misha isn't drinking anything is technically wrong. Water counts as something, and the sip he took of Matt's beer was goddamn _awful_.

Eventually, he'll learn how wrong this first impression was, and he'll learn that the big problem with what Matt stole from the counselors' cabins is that the counselors had cheap, shitty taste in beer. But for the moment, all that matters from Misha's perspective is that beer tastes terrible and that he doesn't need any extra calories, much less nutritionally empty ones. He supposes that Matt doesn't need them either—he's down to two-fifteen all over again and looks chubbier than he did last summer, for all three pounds really shouldn't make that much of a difference—but Matt, at least, looks good with his weight where it is. His belly's more of a tummy, this time, just pudgy enough that Misha could grab onto it if he wanted to do so, if he weren't vaguely certain that doing so would turn them into a magnet for getting caught.

And maybe it's because he's tired out from the three runs he's been on today, maybe it's because he's at the point of hunger where he feels a little bit lightheaded and where he kind of wants to send Matt off to get him some carrot sticks off the refreshments table set up in the cafeteria—but whatever the reason, Misha ends up sighing and asking Matt if he can tell him something. Something kind of serious? Something kind of personal? He swallows thickly when Matt says that of course he can, Misha can tell him anything—and before he's physically capable of saying anything in response, Misha has to turn to guzzling from his bottle, just to fix how desert-dry his mouth decides to get on him.

"Misha, seriously," Matt says, sighing and gently brushing a clump of Misha's hair off his face. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay, I guess? I just—I'm just about the worst, I think?" He groans, stretching his legs out ahead of him and reclining enough to knock his head against the table. He doesn't mean to leave it at that, but Matt goes and tells him that he's wrong anyway, so Misha has to argue his case that much better: "No, seriously, I mean… You could've lost so much more this summer and last summer, too, if not for me? But, no. I totally screwed that up for you. All the sharing stuff with you off my plate, and all of the, 'no, I'm not hungry, you can take it' bullshit—and you know what the worst part is?"

Misha blinks up at the incredulous arch of Matt's eyebrows, the glint of disbelief behind his Disney princess eyes. And with a heavy huff, Matt supposes that no, he doesn't know what the worst part is. "But my guess would go to how you're being completely ridiculous about something that's not your fault? Never mind how losing thirty-three pounds in a summer isn't exactly anything to scoff at—much less if I actually keep it off this time—I'm still really, _really_ not seeing any way that anything to do with _my_ weight is _your_ fault."

"But it _is_ , though." Misha hates the hint of a whine that creeps into his voice, but he persists despite it. "It's completely my fault because I should've at least told you not to take stuff off my plate, but I didn't do it, and the worst part is?" Misha only pauses to knock his head back against the table again. "The worst part is… I think I only didn't stop you—I think I flat out _encouraged_ you sometimes—because… I think I get off on watching other people eat?"

Matt goes quiet for a moment. A long moment. Long enough for Misha to worry that he's gone and fucked up everything—but just before he can start begging for forgiveness, Matt knocks an empty bottle down to the table and tells him, "Well. I'm not gonna tell you that that's not kinda weird, because… I don't get it and I think it's kinda weird? But I mean, when I'm at home? I get off to fanfiction where Zaphod Beeblebrox gets himself off by choking one of his heads, or where Spock gets really rough with Kirk—and I mean, like, bossing him around and rough enough to make him cry, _rough_. So as far as weird kinky shit goes, I'd say we're probably in that boat together? And I can't think of anybody I'd rather be in that boat with."

"The first one's called autoerotic asphyxiation, the second one's probably some permutation of BDSM and it sounds heavy on the Dominance-and-submission part of the acronym, and the Internet leads me to believe that there's actually a wealth of academic writing on both subjects?" Whether or not this is as helpful as he hopes, Misha can't tell. He can't even make out what constellations he's staring at, much less bother with trying to read Matt's facial expressions right now. "As far as I know? There's not some fucking _word_ for, 'douchebag who gets off on watching other people eat, and on watching other people gain weight, and on the thought that he could _help_ someone gain weight on purpose, even though it's probably really, really bad for them to even _think_ about listening to him.'"

"Hey. Knock it off with the talking yourself down stuff— _and_ stop beating your head on things. But mostly stop with the talking yourself down part." The eye-rolling is audible in Matt's voice, and as though this somehow makes his point clearer, he flicks his index finger at Misha's temple.

It doesn't really help—it just makes Misha flinch and whine—but that, in turn, doesn't stop Matt from going on: "You're only a douchebag if you force that on someone who doesn't want it. But do you have any idea how slim the chances are that you're actually alone in having this kink? They're, like, pathetically tiny. When you get home, fucking Google it or something. Look up like, 'weight gain fanfiction' or whatever. And if you're actually alone in this—if you are actually the only person in the entire world who has this kink—then I'll deep-throat a banana and take pictures for you."

Vaguely, Misha wants to appreciate that offer, but instead, he narrows his eyes and furrows his brow up at Matt. "And then you'll have your sister text me updates from the emergency room, where you'll be recovering from anaphylactic shock, right?"

"Fine, I'll deep throat a cucumber or a zucchini or something else that's kind of phallic. How about a sugar-free fudge-sicle, would that be acceptable to you?"

"Actually, I usually think about you licking chocolate frosting off your fingers… but a sugar-free fudge-sicle would be an adequate substitute." Misha sighs. Tries to force a smile up at Matt and just knows from the way Matt wrinkles his nose that he's come up horribly short. "But, you know, even if I _am_ alone in this? You don't really have to make good on that for me—I won't hold it against you for, y'know, not bothering with it or anything."

"Well, I might do it anyway, even _when_ it turns out that you're not alone in having a kink for… whatever your kinky thing is called. Because you're cute, and because I kinda like you a lot, and because your smile's pretty cute, too, so you should really wear it more often, Mister Grumpy Gills."

There are about a thousand things that Misha could say to this—a thousand potential responses, all of which would be infinitely less worrisome and lead to so many better places—but instead, he has to go and whisper, " _Why?_ "

Matt blinks down at him like he's started speaking Klingonese. "Why what?" he says, as though it isn't completely obvious to him.

"Why do you _like_ me?" Misha says, and only doesn't smack his head into the table because that'll make Matt snap at him again. "I mean, I'm kind of a sarcastic asshole to just about everybody, basically all of the time—"

"It's your defense mechanism, smart-ass. We've only been doing group therapy together for four summers now—I _think_ I've seen you in enough emotionally compromising positions to know that you lash out and protect yourself by building a little turtle shell of sarcastic bullshit."

"But don't you think that excuse loses its steam in all the situations where I have absolutely _nothing_ to go lash out about? At what point do you start holding me accountable for the fact that I'm kind of regularly an asshole to people who don't deserve it?"

"I don't know," Matt says, cracking open another bottle of beer. "At what point do _you_ stop beating yourself up over some imagined sins?"

"How about I'll stop beating myself up when I'm _perfect_ ," Misha spits out before he can even think to stop himself. In response, Matt just arches an eyebrow as if to say, _go on?_ —and Misha knows better than to think he's getting out of this with his skin intact if he so much as tries to weasel out of spilling the beans. "I just… You know how, last summer, you were all, like, admiring me for really being here because I'm dedicated to my health?" (Matt does, and bids Misha to continue going on.) "Well… That was bullshit, okay? It was absolute bullshit. I mean, I care about my health, sure, but you know what I care about more? Being _thin_ —even more than that, though? Being _skinny_. Being _perfect_."

Matt sighs, considers everything a moment. "Why would perfection—or I guess, why would _you_ being perfect—have anything to do with how much you weigh? Why would it have anything to do with that instead of how you're smart, and funny, and caring—I mean, you care so much that it really could kill you, so… why does perfection have so much to do with your weight?"

"I don't even _know_ , okay, but it _does_. Asking me that question's like asking me to make up a dissertation on the spot about the effects of consumer culture and idealized bodies on the self-esteem and body image of the average person."

"You probably could, though. If you really put your mind to it."

"That's so entirely not the point, Matt." Misha would be content to just drop this and leave it alone forever—but Matt has to ask what the point is. And Misha has to admit that he doesn't really know—he just knows that it's not how he could make up a dissertation on the spot. "I just… isn't having a perfect body part of the whole _being perfect_ thing?"

"I guess, but my personal definition of a perfect body would have less to do with body mass and more to do with your personal health or lack thereof. Because you know that thinness and health aren't the same thing, right? Because I'm pretty sure Sue and Jamie would kick you in the head if they knew that you got through four summers here and somehow managed to miss that part."

"Well, it's kind of hard to believe them when they say it while helping all of us to _lose weight_. Not to mention how they've wasted our time every _fucking_ summer by talking about eating disorders to a bunch of fat kids—seriously, though. Since when does any _fat kid_ need to hear a spiel about _eating disorders_? Never mind how we have to hear it more than once, since… well, let's face it, most of us end up here more than once?"

"Well, I can think of someone who could stand to sit through their _spiel_ again, since he's apparently missed the part where _not everyone who has an eating disorder is thin_." Rolling his eyes, shaking his head (and his mess of black hair with it), Matt throws back a long drink, and when he comes up, he says, "All right. I'm going to ask this once, and if you don't want to answer it, then that's fine. I'd like it if you _did_ , but you're not obligated to do that. Just… what are you getting so aggressively turtle-shelled about right now? What are you thinking that's scaring you so much?"

Misha sighs and takes a long swig out of his water bottle. "Well," he says, voice low, quiet. "I'm kind of thinking that, y'know, I'm thin for the first time in my life—and I mean _literally_ the first time in my life, because I cannot remember a time when I wasn't fat. So I'm thin for the first time in my life, I've wanted this for _years_ , and I can't even enjoy it." Misha pauses long enough for Matt to ask why not, and shakes his head, not that this shuts him up any. "Because it still hasn't really sunk in that I'm thin, now. Because all I ever see when I look in the mirror is the fat kid, the social reject, the left-handed monkey-wrench in everybody's perfect world. And I feel like that's all I'm ever going to be."

Next thing he knows, Misha has Matt's hand brushing down his cheek, has Matt coaxing him up into a kiss that he can only presume is meant to wake him up or something. But it doesn't. Misha kisses Matt back gently and still doesn't see what he's thinking that's so wrong. He guesses that he must be thinking something wrong, but he couldn't tell anybody what it's supposed to be.

They break up some six weeks later, choosing to stay friends instead. Not because they don't still have Feelings for each other, but because they don't need any extra stress while trying to finish up their college applications, while trying to survive their senior years. After that phone call, Misha's a hellion on the soccer field, and in the first game after his first break-up, he scores four goals. Running harder, playing harder, putting more of himself into this than he needs to—it just makes sense, and the victory rush takes his mind off things. It makes him feel like he hasn't somehow failed.

*******

Misha weighs a hundred and seventy-five pounds when he comes home from his last trip upstate. He's down to a hundred and seventy when he stumbles through the door from homecoming, the only high school dance he ever attends, because hearing a sort-of acquaintance tell him how good he looks now that he's thin leaves Misha wanting to punch a mirror and he'd rather spare himself all the myriad difficulties that would entail.

Keeping up the downward trajectory of his weight, he's down to one-sixty-five about two weeks after Christmas break, when Ms. Benz, his teacher for homeroom and AP English, corners him at the lunch bell and calmly, quietly escorts him to the guidance counselor's office. She says absolutely nothing on the walk down the corridors, and when they sit down opposite dark, petite Ms. Acker, all said counselor asks is if Misha has any idea why they've brought him in here this afternoon.

He just shrugs, lets his head loll back on his neck, stares at the ceiling, since it's the only thing that's not looking vaguely disappointed in him at the moment. "Well, I'm hoping it's because I won some kind of awesome scholarship or something, but I'm guessing that I'd probably get called into the college counselor's office, if that were the case?"

_But no, really, it's cool that we have to have this talk about Lord only fucking knows what even. Sure, let's have me sit here and feel my feelings for you. It's not like I have anything to go and do and it's definitely not like what I really don't have to do is any kind of important or anything._

Ms. Acker sighs. It's the world-weary sigh of someone who's getting forced to be the bearer of bad news. "This isn't a position that I ever though I would find myself in with a student, Misha," she says, "especially not one as exceptional as you. Usually, you're the sort who doesn't get pulled into my office at all…"

_Where the fuck were you when Sarah tried to ruin my life—and managed quite successfully at that? Where were you when Doctor Rhodes put me on three different kinds of psych meds because she emotionally kicked my ass **that fucking badly**? Or is it only okay for you to care about my emotional wellbeing since I lost weight? And that's got to be what this is about, right?_

"But there have been some sort of distressing rumors going around, lately… Rumors that have reached me and Ms. Acker alike." Tucking a stray lock of light blonde hair behind her ear, Ms. Benz gives Misha a long, sad look. "No one's saying that they're true, not in the slightest, but… Considering certain circumstances and certain major life changes that have taken place for you lately, and considering how significant these changes must have been for you…"

_What is so wrong with you people that you can't just say, "We're concerned about you because you spent three years at this school being a big fat-ass, and now this year, after spending all this time busting your ass at fat camp and Weight Watchers, you're suddenly **not** a big fat-ass anymore"?_

"We're not trying to corner you or put you on the spot," Ms. Acker says as though she's approaching a terrified animal. "But the content of some of these rumors is fairly distressing—less because they're true, and more because anyone has a reason to start them about you… Now, some of them have said that you're sick with something, but others have been a little darker and, thus, somewhat more concerning…"

_Or how about you try out something like, "Oh, Misha, you were big as a house as a freshman, a beached baby whale as a sophomore, some Pillsbury Doughboy nightmare as a junior, and now? You were on the soccer team last semester and kicked ass, and you're getting ready to knock Nick down a few pegs and steal his spot as the team's star—and we're worried because we're so used to you being huge"?_

"We just wanted to pull you aside for a little chat about how things are going for you." When she puts her hand on his shoulder, Ms. Benz's smile is blatantly forced. Put together with her eyebrows trying to leap off her face, it makes her look like a budding serial killer. "Some confirmation that the rumors aren't true would also be nice, but… are you handling everything all right? I can't imagine that it's particularly enjoyable to have people gossiping about you enough for us to hear about it?"

_I was **fat** and now I'm **not**. Just say so. It's not like I have fucking cancer. Or HIV. Or full-blown AIDS—because yeah, it's totally hilarious to say that I'm a guy and I'm queer and I've lost a lot of weight, so I must have AIDS. Or whatever the fuck Sarah's saying that I have this week. And seriously: where the Hell was all of this concern when I was fat? I got the shit beat out of me emotionally so much worse when I was a baby whale and none of you miserable fucks said anything about it. Do I just somehow **deserve** this treatment less now, or what?_

But Misha can't say any of the things he's thinking, at the risk of getting stuck in detention, or worse. So he huffs, and cards his fingers back through his hair, and tries to behave himself in telling them:

"Yeah, no, I've heard all of the rumors that are going around about me, too—and I can say that all of them are completely false. I don't have cancer or HIV or some mysterious Victorian novel wasting disease. I don't use drugs, much less have a drug problem, much less a drug problem that's so bad that it's how I got the HIV that, again, I don't actually have. I don't have an eating disorder, and I have an appointment next week with a nutritionist who I'm sure would be happy to write a doctor's note for anyone who wants it, if I really need one to excuse any weird or picky-looking eating habits I might display."

He sighs again, pauses just long enough to let them hang in suspended humiliation before he drops the bomb: "Yes, I've lost a lot of weight in the past couple years, and I guess it's really finally shown off lately, but the only explanations there are fixing up my diet, getting enough exercise, and hitting a couple of growth spurts." _And four summers at fat camp. And three-and-a-half years of pretty intense therapy. And three different kinds of psych meds—but hey, who's counting?_

"The only thing I see that's going on right now is that Sarah's starting rumors about me because she's _bored_ and this is how she likes to lash out at people. I don't know why she's lashing out at people; I'm not a psychiatrist and I don't want to be. All I know is that if there's anybody you should _really_ be talking to about this whole mess? It's probably her, considering she's the one who started it. All I did was lose weight and go out for sports teams."

_Which is probably enough for her, because she still thinks I'm the perpetual fuck-up ruining her perfect world, but that's not my fault. I just want her to leave me the Hell alone, okay?_

"And if there's nothing else that I need to clear up for you," Misha says, with a heavy sigh for which he really deserves a freaking Oscar, "can I please leave? I was supposed to meet Vicki for lunch, and now I'm running late."

It's a lie, but at least it's a lie that gets him the Hell and gone out of Ms. Acker's office. Not that it makes much difference: the first place Misha looks is at the clock, and there's not enough time to get his usual lunch block run in anyway, not if he also wants to shower off after it. So, begrudgingly, he ends up not being that much of a liar after all. Instead of going to the gym, he slouches to the cafeteria, and picks at a salad while he whines to Vicki about this completely ridiculous, totally fucked up meeting. He'll just make up for the time he missed by staying out longer once he's out of track practice.

*******

Misha usually spends his lunch blocks in the gym or on the track anymore, running laps, and for the week after his meeting with Ms. Acker and Ms. Benz, Misha begs out of study hall early so he can get more time in. He only has five pounds left to lose before he'll be at his endgame goal. He can't slack off now or everything he's lost will come crawling back onto his body, making him get fat all over again—and he can't have that happen, he can't let himself slip up so badly, he can't ever go back to where he was. Doing that would kill him.

Maybe he's still anxious and miserable, the same way he was when he was fat. Maybe he hasn't been able to get off his psych meds yet. Maybe there's no way he's going to go to prom, after how coming home after homecoming left him ready to get shards of glass all buried in his hand—but his life's gotten better thanks to losing all that weight. It has because Misha says it has. Because he needs to believe it has. Because he thrives on the way his heart pounds like it wants to kill him from the inside—and when he notices Nick sitting up in the bleachers, Misha snorts, heaves a deep breath, pushes himself to run harder, even if it already kind of hurts to do so.

He only slows down, comes fumbling to a stop when Nick stumbles down to the floor and shouts that he wants to talk, can they maybe do that without him having to yell at Misha. Which gets him a sarcastic, _yes, O, team Captain, my team Captain?_ ; and tossing Misha a sweat-towel gets him a mumbled, _thanks_. Misha might not like Nick—might still feel terrible in his presence, might still remember every single insult he ever threw out in Misha's direction, might still want to kiss his stupid, beautiful lips despite himself—but none of that's any reason to be impolite. Besides, it's legitimately helpful, the sweat-towel. Working out doesn't have to mean that Misha _likes_ getting slicked up with sweat. Or that he _likes_ the way it feels on his forehead.

Or that he likes the way that he and Nick end up staring at each other, eyeing each other waiting for the other to make the first move, as though they're watching animals whose moves they can't predict. For what it's worth, Misha definitely doesn't see it coming when Nick asks him, "So, hey, uh… how're you doing, Misha? How's it going, I mean?"

Misha shrugs and supposes that it's going as well as can be expected. "Counting down to April fifteenth, since I probably won't get in to my early decision first choice," he says. "Probably going way over the top on my paper for AP Euro—oh, and I've had the guidance counselor, my homeroom teacher, and four other teachers ask me, in varying degrees of forthrightness, whether or not it's true that I have a drug problem or cancer or something and that's how I got thin enough for the track team. Tell Sarah, 'thanks' for me."

"She never meant for that to get to any of the teachers… I don't think she even meant for it to get too far outside our clique. I mean, to _you_ , sure, but… it was just supposed to be a joke."

"Yeah, well, it did get to the teachers, and they took it upon themselves to fact-check with me, so…" Maybe Misha's going a little bit over-the-top in being a sarcastic asshole, too. Looking at Nick's sad puppy eyes, he wilts, sighs, says, "It's not totally her fault that I got pulled into Acker's office, though. It's just… I guess I suddenly deserve some attention from the guidance office, since I quit being a big fat-ass, and since I quit looking like Free Willy's lost little brother."

"That's kind of harsh, isn't it?"

" _Your words_ ," Misha snaps more than he means to, and folds his arms over his chest. "Now, if you don't mind? You're kind of interrupting my me-time, so… what do you _want_ , Nick?"

"I just wanted to talk to you, one-on-one, without Sarah or Vicki or Alyson or anybody else around—is that so bad?"

"Well, fine, we've talked. Are we done? Because I might still have time to try and beat my record for the mile-run, and that sounds a lot more productive than re-hashing everything that I'm pretty content to just… drop and leave alone for the rest of forever." There are twenty laps around the gym in a mile, and Misha's already done forty-two. He could get up to sixty-four laps before next period, easily, and still have time to get into the lockers, get out of his gym uniform, and get a shower before class starts.

He's about to start off on his work again when Nick splutters, "I wanted to apologize, okay?"

Misha huffs, turns on his heel to face Nick again. Advances on him, holds his head up high as he edges into Nick's personal space. "Is that why you didn't want anybody else around, then, huh? You're gonna deign to apologize to me, but you still want plausible deniability so nobody can say that Prince Nick would ever, _ever_ take pity on a loser like me? Because you know what? Ten points for effort and intent, but minus about a hundred-thousand for execution. Apologizing means a lot more to the people you hurt when you're not going to just turn around and _deny_ doing it later."

Nick shuffles his feet and stares at the floor. Licks his chapped lips and mumbles, "That's not what I wanted to deny later. It isn't… it's not…" He looks back up at Misha. He's bone-pale, like he's bleached out his fucking skin, and his eyes threaten to bug out of his head. Never mind the start of tears welling up as he says, "That's not what I wanted to deny. You could ask me if I apologized to you in front of the whole Student Activities Committee and I'd say that I did. I promise, hand to God. What I wanted to deny was… this."

He goes graveyard silent and knots his fingers up in Misha's sweat-soaked t-shirt—the grey cotton thing with the dark red letters, spelling out, _Ashman High Athletics_ on Misha's chest. There's a moment when Misha could jerk away, or fight back, try to push Nick off of him—but all he does is stare down at Nick's hands, blink at Nick like, _You know that it's really not pro-apology for you to assault me and deny it later, right? That's pretty much proof that this apology business is a bunch of bullshit_ —and he eats those words when Nick yanks him the rest of the way into his personal space, over and into a hard kiss.

Misha could still fight back. It occurs to him to do so—it occurs to him that he's built up some kind of strength, he could just shove Nick off and make a run for it—it occurs to him that they're supposed to hate each other, that they're supposed to punch each other or something instead of kissing, that he's never even considered that Nick might be into guys. But Misha's moving his lips against Nick's before he really knows what's going on—before he's processed more than the bare minimum of how _Nick is kissing him_ —before he gets it through his head that what he's doing with his lips means not just that Nick is kissing him, but that he's kissing Nick back. That they're _kissing each other_ , that it's mutual, that Nick's mouth has the minty sting of toothpaste and mouthwash, which probably means that this kissing thing is even more planned than he's let on.

That, in turn, means that someone could be waiting, watching, ready to dump a bucket of pig's blood on Misha out of nowhere, give him his just desserts for dropping one hand to Nick's waist and curling the other up around his shoulder—but nothing like that happens. Not even a little bit. All that happens is that Misha pulls back because he has to breathe, and while he stares at Nick, still wondering who this changeling is and what he's done with the real Nick (the Nick who's made Misha miserable for so much of his life), Nick stares back at him, trembling and wide-eyed and quickly losing all the color in his face.

"Please don't tell anyone, okay?" he says.

"Why would I?" Misha hisses without thinking about it. "Do you have any idea how shitty outing someone against their will would be? I'm a jerk and an asshole, sure, but… I'm not _that_ kind of jerk or asshole."

"You're not an asshole," Nick mutters. He hasn't let go of Misha's shirt, and he goes white-knuckled, gripping it tighter. "You're just… I get enough about this at home, you know? I don't need to get it at school, too."

Misha should probably say something, but he can't think about words right now. He's too caught up in the hot, guilty twisting in his stomach and the warm relief that rushes over him. Mom might leave a lot to be desired—Mom might have her weird ideas about food, and weight, and bodies—but at least she was supportive, loving, practically perfect when she found out that Misha was dating Matt. Her only objection was that Misha tried to hide that from her, tried to act like Matt was just a friend. He's never even thought about how much worse she could've been.

And as he opens his mouth, Nick cuts him off: "I know you probably hate me, Misha, and… you're pretty much completely in the right, if you do. I wouldn't blame you, if you do. Nobody I know would, but… I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. For everything. For the nicknames, and the picking on you, for all of the—"

"For all of the bullying me so much and so badly that you and Sarah put me in _therapy_?"

Nick flinches like Misha's slapped him, and with a sheepish look, he nods. "Yeah. For bullying you and putting you in therapy. I can't even tell you why I did it, not that that'd make anything any kind of better, but… I'm sorry. I wish I could make it all up to you, but I know I can't, and you're not obligated to accept my apology—I… I think I'm rambling now, and I think I am because I don't expect you to accept it, but…" He sighs. "I'm sorry, Misha. I'm so sorry."

Misha nods, and swallows thickly, and supposes that he believes Nick's sorry, but doesn't know how he feels about this. He means to sort things out—talk them through and try to end up with a more satisfactory conclusion than _I don't know how I feel about it_ —but Nick jerks away and dashes for the door before Misha can even try. Misha stares off after him, and turns in to take a shower early, scrubs the sweat out of his hair and off of his skin like it's suffocating him.

Nicholas Brendon kills himself not even a week later and leaves behind a note, which he blames his abusive, homophobic father, tells Sarah Michelle that it wasn't her fault. Misha Collins skips the funeral and runs laps around the track at Ashman High until his veins and muscles burn, until he has so much heat coursing through his body, he can hardly even tell it's winter.

He only ever tells Vicki about the kiss, and at that, he only tells her anything halfway through their freshman year of college, because she wonders why February's making him get all choked up.

*******

Misha wakes up with a start, panting and drenched in cold sweat. Cold, pale sunrise filters through the window and the half-drawn curtains, and a moment of tossing to the side, blinking at the alarm clock, says it's nearly seven-thirty.

So, Misha sighs and fumbles out of bed, taking the tape-measure out of his desk and with him, gropes his way to the bathroom and into a freezing shower—it shocks the lingering sleep right off him, gets him out of the mindset that would rather he go back to bed. Not that it gets the aftershocks of his nightmares to go away—but, on the other hand, going for a run will clear that right up.

Before Misha can do anything about that, though, he has to check in on his numbers, he has to make sure that everything's still on track. His waist checks in at thirty-five-and-a-half inches—and Misha sighs in relief. He knew he was making up the thirty-six-and-a-half measurement. It was all just a part of the nightmare. His measurement still isn't great, but it's still better than it could be.

His weight's the part of this problem that could really trip him up—but Misha gets to sigh in relief again. He kicks the scale into life, climbs up on the platform, hears the tinny voice reassure him that he only weighs in at one-eighty-seven. He's still overweight, he's still almost thirty pounds off from where he ought to be, but he's lost five pounds since Halloween, and that's what really matters.

He'll just make sure that he puts his all into this run. He'll stay out longer and make sure that he pushes himself hard enough. Everything will be fine, as long as he does what he needs to do. He's sure of it.

*******

When Misha stumbles back into the apartment, fresh off his hour-and-a-half of running like he's got the Devil's whips behind him, Jensen's nowhere to be found—not that Misha gets to really look for him. Not that he makes it too far past meandering around the kitchen. Before he notices that anything's up, he's made up a glass of ice water and put on the water for the tea, even washed off his face in the sink—and when he's scrubbing the washcloth down his cheeks an extra time (just to be sure that he got everything), he turns around and sees her.

 _Vicki_. With her glasses and her faint smattering of freckles, and the sharp, pointy slender build that she doesn't need to fucking work for. Giving him a look like, _well, well, well, what do we have here, mind telling me why you're home past curfew, Cinderella_. Not to mention how she's sitting at his kitchen table like she lives here and drumming her fingers across the cover of one of Misha's sci-fi paperbacks. It's definitely Bester, he can tell from the black spiral designs on the cover, but Misha's knees and vision both wobble too much for him to see anything clearly, much less if it's _The Demolished Man_ or _The Stars My Destination_. All that's left to do now is put her mind at ease—even if it means lying.

"I had two hardboiled eggs before I went out," he splutters at her, reflexively leaping to conclusions, wringing his hands through the washcloth. "And I only went out for an hour—maybe an hour-and-a-half, at most."

More accurately: Misha's going to put her mind at ease, even if it means slightly exaggerating the truth in order to let his sister feel okay about the world and what her brother's doing in it. There's a difference between the two actions, and what Misha's doing is perfectly acceptable, not least because: a. he'd screw up worse by going and worrying her over nothing; and b. he's not even lying about the eggs, and the shells still sit visible in the half of the sink with access to the garbage disposal. All the more evidence that there's nothing to get fussy over.

And in response, Vicki just shrugs, sighs a little bit, arches an eyebrow in that singularly unimpressed way that she reserves for when she knows that something's up with him. "I was actually waiting for Jensen to get back from doing the grocery shopping," she says. "Which he's kind of had to do since you've had a list drawn up for a while and haven't gone."

Glowering, Misha slouches into the corner and folds his arms over his chest, tries to ignore his insides when they squirm at the residual film of sweat on his upper arms. "I've been _busy_ ," he huffs. "It's not like I've been avoiding it on purpose. I've just forgotten to do it because I've had papers to grade and all kinds of other shit to do. There's nothing going on that we need to worry about."

…Except that he finally gets a glimpse of the clock on the microwave and gapes when he sees that it says ten-thirty. He went out for his run around eight, before Jensen had even woken up. Misha left a post-it note on the fridge for him and everything—saying that he'd be back by nine or nine-thirty. And Vicki notices him gaping, has to go and ask what's on his mind, and Misha's legs feel like jello—his brain feels even worse than that—so he can't lie to her the way that he wants to, the way that something in his head is yelling at him to do.

Sighing, Vicki smacks his shoulder and shunts him into the shower, promises that she'll make his tea up the way he likes it. Once Misha's clean enough, he finds that she's kept that promise. She didn't even go mixing in the two-percent milk that Misha keeps so he doesn't have to drink Jensen's whole-fat stuff. She's done nothing to sneak extra calories into his purposefully no-calorie drink—she must be serious about whatever's on her mind. Which probably means all kinds of not-good things for Misha—or so says the same thing in the back of his head that tried to tell him how he needed to lie to her.

"Are you sure you're doing okay?" she asks, leaning against the counter next to him. "And just in case you're thinking about lying to me? I won't call you out on it, but I'll be very upset about it anyway. Because I can usually tell when you're full of shit, Meesh. So… are you sure you're doing okay, Brother?"

"Not as sure as I wanted you to think I am," he mumbles into his mug, voice as soggy and dispirited as his hair. "Definitely not as sure as I've been telling myself I am. I'm more, like… pretty certain that I'm not doing okay in the slightest and not sure what to do about it."

"You could take a leave of absence? Get health services to sign off on how you need a break for the sake of your mental health?"

"Kinda makes me wish I hadn't stopped seeing Doctor Rhodes when I went off for undergrad, since… she'd probably sign off on a doctor's note after sitting down with me for five minutes." Misha sighs and tosses back a long drink of tea, almost wishes that he had his full regimen psych meds back in his life. The only thing he's taken since freshman year has been his course of ADHD meds, and he gets his Adderall prescribed by a therapist at the clinic down in town, one who only asks questions about his attention deficit issues and who Misha doesn't really mind lying to, ever.

"And it's too bad that Mark's not really a shrink," he goes on, "because he'd write the snarkiest doctor's note ever for me and it'd probably be all kinds of hilarious— _Please excuse Misha from any further obligations this semester as he's going out of his wormy little mind_. But anyway, it's too late in the semester for me to take a leave, isn't it? I mean, even if I can still take incompletes for everything or however it works… I can pull through all my classes and at least get the credits, right?"

"If you really think that that's any kind of good idea," she says in a way that suggests she probably doesn't, which makes Misha's objection catch and die inside his throat. Huffing, Vicki brushes her fingers over his hair, then down his cheek. "So, how are you really doing?"

"Struggling, I think? …Yeah, I think 'struggling' is probably the best word for how I'm doing. I'm doing the sort of not-okay where I just had to suffer through nightmares about fat camp, and high school, and Nick killing himself, and Sarah trying to ruin my life, so… extrapolate from that whatever you want."

Apparently, she wants to extrapolate a great deal. Misha polishes off his tea and asks Vicki for a refill, but instead, she gives him a long look—all wide-eyed, and sad, and making his stomach flush hot and start twisting up with guilt. He starts to explain that no, but really, he'll be okay, he'll manage everything just fine, he probably only needs Christmas break to come so he can get his head back on straight—but she shuts him up by curling her arms around his shoulders and dragging him down into a hug. Misha wilts into the embrace, wraps his arms around his sister's back and buries his face in the curve of her neck, and for a while, all they do is stand there, with her holding him and him taking deep, meditative breaths against her skin.

"I'm not going to pretend like I'm not worried about you, you little idiot," Vicki mutters after a while, nosing up against Misha's ear. "But I _am_ going to tell you that you don't have to worry about me worrying about you. I'm worried because I care, not because you're a burden or whatever else you're telling yourself. And whatever you might be thinking to the contrary? Your friends and I want to _help_ you. You can talk to us. Getting some of this mess off your chest might even make you feel better, okay?"

And maybe, Misha thinks? Maybe—just maybe—Vicki has a point about the whole, _talking to someone will make you feel better about what's going on for you_ thing. …No. No, she definitely has a point. Maybe Misha needs to talk to someone, and more honestly than he's done for this whole time. Jensen's the obvious first choice, but he's ruled out on the basis of being too much of a worrier. Not to mention the basis that includes how Misha wants Jensen to see him at his best.

Fuck the response essays he needs to write. Fuck the papers he has to grade. Fuck the entire world up the ass with barbed wire. Misha's going over to Mark's tonight, so help him God.


	19. Oh no, I've said too much.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha gets so very close to outright asking for help… and sort of fails to see that through, but manages to make some progress anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the original prompt, this chapter uses: "Stockholm syndrome," "learning to be loved," "hostile climate," "family," and "motion sickness" as a single-line extra for ~hc_bingo, and "choke" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

"I need one of our sessions," Misha says as soon as Mark opens up the door for him.

Mark smirks, too knowingly. Arches his eyebrow at Misha and, no doubt, at how Misha's swimming in one of Jensen's Kripke U sweatshirts. "Whenever don't you? Well, come on in. My couch is your couch, "

"Not that kind of session."

Misha sighs and drops his backpack by Mark's kitchen table, wandering into his apartment's main room and flopping out on the sofa. Despite his claims not to be here for faux-therapy, he puts his feet up, stares blankly at the ceiling as though it might have some kind of answer to a question he hasn't asked. Faux-therapy's why he usually ends up at Mark's place. It's the reason that's brought him here since only slightly after Halloween.

"Though I guess it's cool," he adds, "if you want to make me feel my feelings for you before we move on to the action. I'm mostly feeling pretty amenable to humoring you. Mostly."

"It might help me make any kind of decision if I knew what the action _was_ ," Mark says and plops down into his secondhand armchair. Even without a clipboard or a notebook in hand, he looks ready to jot down all kinds of things—observations and thoughts about Misha's behavior or whatever suits him. "What are you thinking about chasing after, if I may be so bold?"

"Sex, long story short." Hardly any point in beating around the bush about it, really. That'd be like lying to children about important things. Huffing, Misha leans his head around, blinks up at Mark as innocently as he can mange—as innocent as fucking Bambi. "Hey, you're the one who offered, right? Friends with benefits hooking up, all in the spirit of good fun and… whatever's on your mind or mine?"

"Well, my gosh and good Heavens, Dimitri—tell a girl how you really feel. You're being so flippant, I might even risk to go concluding that you won't well respect me in the morning."

"That's presuming that I respect you _now_ ," Misha says, and they both chuckle, even though it's really only funny because Mark's one of the few people Misha _does_ respect. "Anyway, I'll respect you in the morning if you fuck me stupid and call me skinny, or just tell me that you don't want to have sex with me tonight so we can get through the therapy part and stuff. Maybe I'll even make you dinner to prove that I respect you. In either case."

"Sentiment appreciated, but I ate already. Reheated lasagna, even," says Mark, and he points to the dishes in his sink as evidence, even though he's not the one of them who, given precedent, needs to back up claims that he ate earlier. "If I get to do some play-therapy, then… I find your request particularly interesting. Not in that you're after some verbal humiliation—unless you ever stopped liking that, and I hope you haven't, I do always love dusting that off for you—but in that you want me to humiliate you by telling you that you're skinny."

Sighing, he shifts around in his seat, jostles the pudgy mound of his stomach. "That seems rather out-of-character for you, if you don't mind me saying. Usually, 'skinny' is a good thing for you—not grounds for humiliation. Or like anything you particularly need help with. Much less in a sexual kind of context."

Misha flushes pink and wriggles in place, feels a wave of heat start writhing, scratching down the back of his neck. "It's not. Not if you're making me feel skinny when I don't feel like it but I want to," he half-mumbles. "I'm just having a really rough time of things right now, Mark? I'm having a rough time and I want to get out of my head and feel skinny, which I _don't_ , because I went and started getting all fat again this semester, so how about we agree on whether or not it sounds like a plan?"

"Oh, I think it sounds like a plan—I'm just taking you up on the offer of making you feel your feelings, first. We could even make it foreplay, if you wanted that. All, 'confess this, that, and the other thing to me, submissive'—if you want."

"There's pretty much no way my feelings right now are going to be good for any kind of foreplay. And if I'm going to feel them for you anyway, I'd rather not have to try to roleplay it? I'd really rather just… rip off the bandaid and go with what I'm really feeling."

"All right, then… well, then. To start off with?"

Huffing like an irate dragon, Mark leans forward in his seat, makes his belly spill out further into his lap than it already sits, rests his elbows on his knees so that he obscures most of Misha's view of the sight. Of course. Can't have Misha going and getting distracted by Mark's stomach; they're doing something serious here and they have to behave until it's finished. They have to take it seriously. For all he's not the biggest of Misha's exes—for all his weight gain wasn't the most impressive one that Misha had a hand in—Mark's still got a lovely belly, all plush and soft and—

"I've got a question for you, Ivan Karamazov," Mark snaps into Misha's much more pleasant reverie. "Why do you keep saying things like, 'getting fat _again_ '? You've done it all semester. You did it after you broke your leg. And do you have any idea how much sense it makes?"

Misha shrugs and supposes to the ceiling that it makes perfect sense, considering he's not speaking French or using a bunch of polysyllabic technical terms—but Mark has to go and shake his head. And before Misha can even appreciate his own cleverness, at that. Jerk.

"See, maybe I'm a bit biased in my estimates here, but… then again, so are you." Mark slips into his pedantic teacher voice easier than Jensen slips into armless chairs for dinner. It just suits Mark so well, and it goes so well with what he's trying to say, how he keeps building up to something. "My guess for how much sense you saying, 'I'm getting fat _again_ '? Would be infinitely closer to _none at all_ , Misha."

He pauses. Waits. And all Misha gives him is a heavy sigh—because what the Hell is he even supposed to say to that kind of accusation? He has no idea. It's easier to just let Mark carry on: "In all the time I've known you, Misha, you've gotten ever-so-slightly pudgy, just a little bit chubby, and you've done it all of _once_. After an _injury_. When it was _more than understandable_ —and yes, I'm excluding whatever you think about how you look now, because all you look right now, to me? Is slightly less on the verge of passing out on the nearest flat surface and slightly less in danger of blowing over in a mild breeze—"

"You know, for being the one who always organizes people around the, 'Misha an eating disorder' banner? You have no goddamn _idea_ how to talk to someone who has an eating disorder, do you?" It's some kind of miracle that Misha doesn't sigh, or groan, or huff, or anything. All he does is arch his back, lift his hips off the sofa and drop them back down, try to roll his back in a way that'll work out one of the knots he's got building up there. "If I _did_ have an eating disorder, telling me that I'm healthy in a way that hinges on weighing more than I want? Wouldn't be a good plan. Not unless you want me to obsess over how I've gone and started getting fat again, hypothetically speaking."

"Hypothetically speaking, my fat ass—"

"Yes, thank you for your input, Mark—I know how you feel about this, and so do Vicki and Jensen, and… Just can you maybe try harder to watch what you say to the guy who's supposed to have an eating disorder, okay?" Misha squirms again—his skin's crawling just from talking about this—and when he hugs himself over his stomach, he feels a phalanx of goosebumps pricking up all along his arms. "Maybe you think it's just in good, snarky fun, but sometimes, you say shit that's pretty hypothetically triggering. Even just to someone with admitted body image issues, if not your specific diagnosis."

"Fine. You have body image issues and I'll try harder to watch what I say." Mark twists his face up into something that looks conflicted, if sympathetic. He pales a bit, shifting in his seat again, watching Misha for any sign of who even knows what. "But as I was trying to say? Your weight's gone on an upswing twice in all the time I've known you, but you've never been _fat_. Decidedly not. So… what on earth are you talking about? It's some self-judgmental, body image issues thing, isn't it? Because that's all I've got to explain it."

Misha really does groan this time—damn his big fucking mouth. Realistically? He should've expected himself to slip up in this. He planned on telling Mark about all that's on his mind anyway—about the nightmares and everything. As soon as he made the decision to come over here tonight, Misha figured that, whether they had sex or not, he's open up to Mark about all these things that he and Jensen know nothing about, that even Richard never knew anything about. But there's a method to these things. There's a script or an outline Misha should've tried harder to stick to. There's a way this was supposed to happen, and it didn't involve getting called to the carpet over his little slips of the tongue like this.

Curling his arms around himself all the more, he mutters that he doesn't really want to talk about. Hugging himself still tighter, he responds to Mark's next prod for him to spill—to let Mark in on even just a little bit of what's going on—that no, really, it's deeply personal and he doesn't want to talk about it. In a long moment of silence, Misha rolls onto his side and as Mark tells him that it sounds like he probably _needs_ to talk about it, Misha curls his legs up to his chest. He thwacks his head into the cushion and whines at the even, measured insistence that Mark's not going to tell anything to anyone, even though they don't really have a doctor-patient confidentiality clause to fall back on, since, well—Mark isn't a doctor and will never be the sort that has patients.

"I just get confused about you saying these things, I suppose," he says. "Never mind concerned about you. A friend and someone I care about more than either of us is really comfortable admitting."

"I had a life before I met you, you know…" Misha doesn't really mean to accuse Mark of anything—much less saying anything like that—but never mind his intent. Misha's pretty sure that's how it comes out. Like an accusation. With a meek sigh, he waves a hand over at his backpack; the action feels limp to him, so it probably looks like Hell. "Explanation's all in there. Look for the photo album with the navy cover."

Mark scoffs, arches an eyebrow down at Misha, and mutters something about how it's only thanks to liking Misha as much as he does—the way he's going to get up and go find the photo album instead of making Misha use his words like a grown-up. Even so, he doesn't have the decency to rifle through Misha's collection of notebooks, reading, and clothes for tomorrow morning in the kitchen. Mark drags the backpack over to the sofa with him, drops back into his seat with an exaggerated sigh, and unzips Misha's backpack right there in front of him. Makes Misha watch as he digs around. Makes Misha listen to every single pensive hum. When he finally drags the album out—when he finally throws the cover open—Mark fakes licking his finger and dragging it across the upper corner of the first page—and then he looks down at the album's contents.

For a moment, his eyes threaten to bulge out of his skull, but after that, he just blinks at the thing, gapes at the pictures, furrows his brow and says nothing. The first page is probably more of a shock to him than Misha expected it to be, with its photos from Misha and Vicki's thirteenth birthday party, when he must've weighed in at about three-fifteen or three-twenty. That thought almost makes his chest get light with giddiness, almost lets him entertain the notion that this is a victory, having gotten so thin as an adult that his younger self makes his friends gag—except he can't entertain it for too long, because Mark keeps flipping through the pages, keeps stumbling across pictures, and for a while, younger-Misha just gets bigger and bigger in them. He doesn't even need to count pages to get an idea of where Mark's at in his slow, ponderous flipping through the book; his bug-eyed, fish-mouthed expressions get the point across just fine.

After a while, he takes out one of the only pictures that didn't get developed at K-Mart, one of the only ones that isn't a snapshot. It's a polaroid—he holds it up for Misha, giving him a Significant Glance, and letting his eyes dart at it for just a second lets Misha see that it's from the start of his first summer at Camp Prospect. It even has _Misha Collins_ and the date and a damning _351_ scrawled on the white strip at the bottom of the picture. Mark stares at him with a look that screams, _so where's the punchline or the candid camera? when does Ashton Kutcher jump out and let me know that I'm being Punk'd? this **is** some kind of joke that you only think is funny because of your issues, right_ —and all that Misha has it in him to do is sigh, and shrug, and give Mark a Look in return, one that's more in the vein of, _what, exactly, do you expect from me? because I can't really tell._

"So how much work did you put into fucking with me this time," Mark says when the silence gets too grating. "You downloaded all of these off the Internet—with the exception of this one, which… Lord only knows where you got your hands on this—and you are absolutely fucking with me."

"Why would I fuck with you over something that started well over ten years ago and, to this day, still haunts basically everything I do?" The words ring in Misha's ears so hard that he can barely believe he's saying them. At the very least, he ought to be whining them, or otherwise making a scene—but he doesn't. But he can't. They come out of him half-sighed and without inflection, and he throws up more of them when Mark won't stop staring: "What the Hell would I stand to gain by fucking with you about weighing over three-hundred pounds when I was twelve? Or weighing just over three-fifty when I was fourteen? Why would I fuck with you about something like that, Mark?"

Mark swallows thickly and makes a face like he's just sucked on a lemon or caught a whiff of rotting garbage. He admits that he doesn't have any good answer for that, much less a clever witticism to clear the air. "But you're so…" he tries to say. "And you carry yourself like… You don't carry yourself like someone who used to be fat?" (Misha has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but then again, when he prods the cheeky fucker? Neither does Mark.) "I'm just trying to wrap my head around this revelation you've pulled out on me still, and… _how_?"

Misha scrapes his fingernails along his forearm—tries to block out the sensation of something gnawing along the inside of his stomach—as he runs down the list of tactics: "Good diet. Actually getting some damn exercise. Four summers at fat camp. A nutritionist, who gave me my first regimented meal plan, complete with allowances for snacks—only healthy ones, though, naturally. Therapy and medication that I might need back in my life more than I thought. Internalizing a lot of crap from my mother and the other kids who made my life a living Hell. Oh, and, coming up with issues enough that I once made myself run an extra two miles because I'd swallowed my boyfriend's cum the night before and, well, it was the first time I'd been under two-hundred since I was… what, nine or ten? And I couldn't go fucking that up with extra calories, right?"

"Semen actually doesn't have that many calories in it. I hear it's high in protein and all kinds of vitamins, too."

"Yeah, no, I looked it up online when I got home from that summer. Not that it mattered, because I'd still driven myself half-crazy with extra running and self-abasement to make up for all the times that I didn't manage to spit up. Plus, it's not exactly a logical aversion that I've got going on here."

"Also, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you lead me to believe that you were a _virgin_ before our first time?"

Misha blinks up at Mark and tries to smirk, but… somehow, he suspects it comes out looking like he's going to be sick instead. "Are you gonna get romantic and hair-splitting with me about this?" he says through another exhausted teapot sigh. "Because technically? I was a virgin. I'd never penetrated anyone or been penetrated, or even had someone give _me_ a blow-job. All Matt and I did that summer was jerk each other off and sometimes, I sucked his dick because I was seventeen and didn't think he'd keep liking me if I didn't."

Mark tilts his head to the side, looking for all the world like an extremely puzzled owl. "Matt? Not… not like hacker Matt you dated here, right?"

"No, dumb-ass, not like hacker Matt I dated here, who's now in beautiful, sickening hacker love with Katherine, who I also dated here. More like, 'Matt who was my bunkmate, and who was then my first boyfriend or any kind of significant other because I thought I was completely gay at the time, and who is now an actor in the City and dating some guy named Simon, who seems to be pretty good for him.'" Rolling his eyes, Misha gives Mark and the album a dismissive little hand-wave. "Flip a little further, there's a couple pictures of him in there, too. From camp and more recently. He's the tall, blue-eyed brunet who's a little soft around the edges."

"He's cute. I definitely see the appeal. Especially if he has a personality that I can describe as other than completely awful." Somehow, Mark manages to say without even a shred of sarcasm to it, once he's flipped to the back and found some of the more recent photos. "So, I take it that fat camp didn't really take for him, then? Or did it take, only for him to meet the dreaded freshman fifteen?"

Misha huffs and wonders what business that is of Mark's. "But it's more like a mix of the two, if you're really so curious."

"So, you're here because Jensen put you up to it, right?" This question drops out of nowhere with the impact of a brick to the head, and for a long moment, it's all Misha can do to sit up—thankfully, even taking the whole _on a sofa_ part into account, he hasn't lost so much muscle in his stomach that he can't do a single sit-up—and blink at Mark. All Mark does in return is shrug, roll his eyes ever so slightly. "I only ask because you came prepared for my understandable skepticism and confessing things isn't your standard modus operandi—even _in_ our sessions, such as they are."

Shaking his head, Misha flops back down, only so he can sit up again and prove to himself that he can manage two reps. "Jensen doesn't know about it yet," he says, leaving his, _and I will castrate you with my bare hands if you even think about telling him_ unspoken. "I'm sort of, kind of, maybe thinking about clueing him into things, but I just… I don't know how to bring the subject up with him."

Again, Mark rolls his eyes—more blatantly this time, though, which doesn't help the cold, hard, gnawing feeling in Misha's stomach. "Well, you could always try opening with, 'Jensen, can we talk? It's about my body image issues and how I'm having a really rough semester'—you know he'll drop everything and come try to fix things for you by listening. Then, once you've got his attention, I would cut all of the bullshit you're so fond of and just tell him, 'You know how you don't understand why I'm so finicky and particular about what I eat? Or why I have so many insecurities about my body? Well, there's a reason for that, and it's that I was the fat kid until high school.'"

The implications Mark's going for are clear, and they all boil down to one sentiment that he's expressed more times than Misha cares to count: _Honestly, Princess, how would you manage to survive without me? Have you ever even heard of Occam's Razor before?_ —and for what little it's worth, Misha's grateful that Mark doesn't have to bleat them from the rooftops. Not that it gets his stomach to settle less—not that another three sit-ups really helps that, either, as though that would stop Misha—but it's sort of reassuring that Mark does always stick to his promise of play-doctor/patient confidentiality. Sort of.

"That might be a bit too open for me, though," Misha says and slouches against the back of the sofa instead of going down for another round of reps, tries to ignore the way this position makes the little rolls of flab around his middle pooch out against his thighs. "Even _this_ conversation makes me feel like I'm cheating on somebody important, so… Actually voicing things directly? I mean, I'll keep it in mind, but I don't know how up for it I'm going to be, when it happens—which is another thing. I still don't even know when I'm going to sit him down for this chat?"

"My advice would be to handle it as soon as possible. Just get it all out in the open so you have one less façade to worry about maintaining." A frown flashes onto Mark's face, along with a pointed arch of his eyebrow. "Because even if it's only lying by omission? This _is_ still a façade. Hiding behind people's presumption that you've always been thin and all of that."

"I know," Misha admits and licks his lips. "And… if we're still having sex tonight—which I would like to? because I still need to get out of my head a little. Or a lot. Or just… What do you have kicking around the kitchen? Because I didn't get dinner for myself before coming over here, and I'm trying to remind myself that skipping it isn't as good an idea as some part of me wants to think."

Rising to his feet with a sigh, Mark reaches over to squeeze Misha's shoulder and says that they can still fuck, after Misha eats something. "I've got some vegetables and some leftover grilled chicken, if a salad that's more than wilted lettuce sounds acceptable to you."

Misha smiles (for all it's tiny and feels pretty wobbly), nods, and whispers, "Thanks, Mark."


	20. Thick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thanksgiving starts off questionably, though not entirely in a bad way, and in which also Jensen doth protest too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "motion sickness," "restrained," "WILD CARD (loneliness)," "scars" and "bites" as a single-line extra for ~hc_bingo; "fascination" for 100 things ([reference prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560177.html)); "exposure/exhibitionism," "painplay (other)," "subspace/headspace," and "humiliation (situational)" as a postage stamp extra for ~kink_bingo.

Jensen sighs, edges well into whining territory for all he means to keep a handle on himself, and squirms around the mirror. Letting his belly flop forward and push his jeans' fly all the way apart again, he stares and tilts his head at his reflection, traces his eyes all up and down his frame. Huffs and points out that no one's picked out his holiday outfit for him since he was, like, eleven or twelve. So yeah, he thinks he's pretty much allowed to have his reservations about going along with Misha's designs and weird turn-ons, and about how he could be potentially enabling Misha in his delusions of being an evil overlord when he grows up.

"That implies that I'm not an evil overlord _now_ ," Misha says with a shrug from where he's slouched back against Jensen's headboard, pretending to be in a text-argument with Vicki, _pretending_ that he's not watching Jensen fuss over himself and his clothes and his appearance, pretending that everything's normal, the conversation they're still ignoring never happened, and he doesn't apparently have a crush on Jensen. He keeps his voice even, he doesn't look up from his phone, he taps on the keyboard like he might not be lying about the purported text-argument. He's pretty damn good at pretending that he doesn't have a crush—or maybe it's just that he's good at pretending.

"And," Misha goes on, still without looking up at Jensen, "you're implying that I'm ever going to grow up. Which is, shall we say, debatable at best—in case you missed the memo that I don't place a lot of value on conventional adulthood, or having a conventional adulthood, or behaving like a conventional adult, or behaving in the first place."

"And _that's_ you trying to act like you place any kind of value on conventional anything, Mister Death To Normalcy," Jensen snarks, rolling his eyes—at least until he looks back to the mirror and blushes bright pink. Wonders if that was too friendly, too encouraging, too far into the realm of potentially causing non-platonic things to happen? Because if it was, then it's kind of a dick move on his part, isn't it? But they always tease each other and it's just as much of a dick move not to keep doing that, because Jensen's not supposed to know that Misha's in love with him, so how he acts around Misha shouldn't change. Or should it? With Mark and Vicki showing up soon for Thanksgiving, maybe it should? Maybe they'll be looking for Jensen to be acting differently.

"Never mind how you're totally acting like I asked you to pick out my clothes for me," Jensen says and tries to take a page out of Misha's book—in his case, though, he's acting like his head isn't spinning around like it wants to kill him. "Because maybe I zoned out or something for that chat, but I definitely don't remember asking for you to play my mom and make like I'm seven again and we're getting the Christmas card photo taken."

"You didn't ask me to pick out your clothes; your boyfriend did." To Jensen's splutter of, _say what?_ , Misha glances up from his phone and shrugs as though this is a perfectly normal statement. "Jared just felt bad about how you're not at Oxford with him for the holiday, and he's not here with you, and he commissioned me to take pictures of you—and to make sure that you look your best for them. And to see how much I could work in some catering to his thing for tight clothes. And if I do this, he gets me the _Deep Space Nine Companion_ and the DVD sets of seasons five and seven for Christmas and my birthday, instead of making me wait for a surprise."

Jensen sighs and supposes that it seems like a fair trade, that he can't really argue with it, and a bunch of other half-hearted junk that he's not sure he really believes. Leave it to Jared and Misha to conspire behind his back to dress him up all fancy instead of letting him eat his fat little heart out in something comfortable. Leave it to Jared to pick just the right Misha-neurosis to manipulate to his own ends, and leave it to Misha to go along with it because: a. he hates it when people try to guess what he wants and surprise him with presents, and b. he's probably getting off on this idea right along with Jared, that cheeky, adorable, completely transparent fuck-head.

Well. Completely transparent since Jensen got confirmation that Misha has a kink, and more so since Vicki and Danneel took it upon themselves to tell Jensen that his best friend's apparently been in love with him for years. Either way, it's easy for _Misha_ to say that Jensen looks hot for his boyfriend's benefit and needs to stop being so difficult; _he's_ not the one trying to cram himself into this outfit. He's all kicked back on Jensen's bed, in his black jeans and the black-blue-and-grey striped sweater that his Grandma Krushnic made him, not worrying about anything getting too tight for him to eat anything or about popping his buttons before he's even started in on his dinner.

Not that Jensen actually has a problem with what Misha went and picked out for him. The black button-up fits him pretty well—loosely enough that he's not that afraid to sit down and eat in it, that is—and it hugs his belly without stifling him or making him think he'll bust the thing's buttons off in front of everyone. The argyle sweater-vest is done up in alternating greens and for all it snuggles a bit closer to Jensen's frame than the shirt does, it's by no means _restraining_ him or _suffocating_ him or any other bad thing that it could be doing. And if he does say so himself, it brings out his eyes really nicely—he can't even remember when he got this thing. He wants to say it was a birthday present from Danneel, but he's not entirely certain. Jensen doesn't suppose it really matters, though, because his major issue with the ensemble is still in play.

And his major issue is the pair of forty-two-waist jeans that Misha expects him to squeeze into—they were baggy on him back in September, but now? How on Earth he's managed to wiggle them up his jiggling, porky thighs is beyond Jensen. How on Earth Misha expects him to get them zipped and buttoned around his waist—much less to do so while he's tucking in his shirts—is even more mysterious than that. Jensen's pretty sure he couldn't get these things done up if someone paid him, and wearing them on a day when he's going to stuff himself even more than anybody else would? No, sir. Not happening—at least, it's not happening if Jensen judges from how sucking in his gut only barely manages to get the button and the hole to skirt up against each other without a hope of actually meeting.

For a moment, Jensen pauses and palms at his belly, prods at its soft, pudgy underside and jostles the whole thing around. Even covered up, it's undoubtedly getting bigger; there's no way to hide that. Jensen could live with doing his jeans up underneath of it just because that'd leave his stomach sagging down over his belt and there's no way he wouldn't make a spectacle of himself. That might be more than a little bit fun. Jensen can't believe Misha hasn't even considered it as an option—sure, everybody who's coming today knows that Jensen's a feedee, and they all know that he's been putting on weight for Jared this semester. But he usually tries to dress so they can't tell, just in case anyone (like Genevieve) gets talking to Jared and flaps their big mouths too much about how Jensen's looking, pudge-wise, lately.

All Jared's heard is that Jensen's put on a couple pounds. He's not allowed to get any specifics until he gets back home. But having one day—just one—where he could flaunt his belly, flaunt how much bigger it is and how much softer, flaunt how he can't squeeze it into his jeans? Having one day where all eyes are going to be on him while he eats, anyway, so he can take advantage of that to show off his and Misha's work, as much of his belly's full expanse as he could showcase without taking off his clothes? Jensen kinda loves that idea. He kinda loves it a lot.

But Misha said he wants Jensen's pants done up around his waistline, and that's bound to be an order from Jared. Or a present for Jared. Or something to do with Jared. Either way, it means that Jensen has to play along and do what's been requested of him. If not for the fact that they have guests coming in way too soon for comfort, Jensen would let himself just roll around in how, even long-distance and even when they can't get on Skype, Jared finds ways to tell him what to do, give him all kinds of loving suggestions and sexy orders… Even if he can't completely lose himself in that, Jensen has time enough to zone out, thinking about it, rubbing gentle circles around his belly in case his huge breakfast is still giving him trouble, in case he maybe needs to digest better and that's why he can't do up his pants.

And Jensen reminds himself: this is all for Jared, ultimately. He gets to get off on the food, and eating it, and the show he's putting on for his boy, even without Jared being here to appreciate it up close and right now—but Jared's going to get off on the pictures later, which means that Jensen needs to make them _good_. So, he tries to suck in harder, deeper—tries to get his belly to go in further—but still, the only way Jensen sees these stupid pants cooperating is if he does them up underneath his gut and lets the thing stand out, sag over. Which sighing only makes more obvious as his belly surges forward again, jiggling back into place and toppling his fly aside like a fucking tower of Jenga blocks. This task here might just be fucking impossible.

Telling Misha so gets Jensen the reward of a pointedly arched eyebrow and a huff that nothing's impossible, with the correct application of effort and imagination. Rolling his eyes, Misha leans forward and pats the mattress by his legs, tells Jensen to come over and lie down. As he does so, Misha gets up, and while Jensen's getting comfortable on his back, he steals a glimpse of Misha shimmying out of his sweater, getting down to his t-shirt—and Jensen must be seeing things, because for a moment, it looks like Misha really does have the tummy he's complained about since Halloween and a little before. But, no. But that's not possible because Misha's been upset over nothing. But maybe he's gained a little bit of weight, just not enough to make any kind of difference, much less be so prominent that Jensen can make it out on him.

But Misha's next move is to climb back up on the bed and straddle Jensen's thighs—and stripped down to a very thin t-shirt? From the vantage point that Jensen has? Okay, yeah, no really, he's grown up enough to admit that he's been wrong. Misha heaves a sigh as he drops onto Jensen's legs, and he's either oblivious to the little bounce around his midsection or else he's ignoring it—unfortunately, the latter's slightly more likely, considering it's Misha. There's not a lot to complain about, from Jensen's point of view—but, then again, Jensen weighs about a hundred pounds more than where Misha likes his own weight to be, and Jensen wants to get even bigger, so his point of view, admittedly, is nevertheless pretty skewed in favor of, _Misha's been upset over something that's not quite as practically insignificant as I thought, but still really not that bad_.

The little bit of pudge pushing against Misha's t-shirt isn't even really a _belly_ , the way Misha's complaining's made it seem. Oh, sure, he's not exactly _skinny_ —the extra weight is there, and it bunches up in perfectly handful-sized rolls when Misha leans forward to get to work on Jensen's fly. With an agitated huff, Misha shifts up onto his knees and tells Jensen to lift his hips, then uses that angle to yank the too-small goddamn jeans the rest of the way up to Jensen's waist—even while he's flat on his back, Jensen's belly sticks up enough to make getting the fly done up seem… well, if not still impossible, then at least really, really hard—and when Misha flops back onto Jensen's legs, the little tummy-shaped thing doesn't go away. If anything, it pooches out a little bit further, from the way he slouches, sighs, and it looks so soft that Jensen has to ball his hand up in his sheets to keep from reaching out to touch it.

He bets it'd be nice, touching Misha's tummy, just casually kneading his fingers into it, pinching at it, splaying a hand over it while cuddling up to Misha's back—and the hairs on the back of Jensen's neck prick up, stand on end, as he realizes— _fuck_ his life, he has a _boyfriend_. A boyfriend who is _not_ Misha. But he's thinking about Misha. Very much without his consent, his whole face flushes pink; a wave of heat shocks down his spine and starts pooling, twisting around in the pit of his stomach; his teeth chomp down on his lower lip, but not enough to really hurt—Jensen's just glad that it all coincides with Misha telling him to suck in, so he can try his best to pass it off as him trying too hard to draw in his deep breath, to hold his stomach in so it doesn't make Misha's job any harder than it already is. He doesn't notice how it goes—whether or not Misha gets the button done up—until Misha thwacks him on the side and tells him he can breathe.

"Come on, Muffin-Top. Let's get going some time this century," he says with a snicker—and fittingly, too, judging from how much flab billows and pooches out from the pinch around Jensen's waist, how much his belly squishes the waistband of his jeans as he sits up.

Which turns out to be one of Jensen's worse ideas. Not because of his pants and not because of how tight they are, but because Misha's still straddling his thighs. Because he doesn't think about that until he's sitting up, until he finds himself so close to Misha's face that his vision slides out of focus—shows him two Mishas for a moment before he forces them back together. Taking yet another deep breath, Jensen drags his tongue along his chapped lips—it slows his heart a little bit and soothes his racing thoughts, the fact that Misha has to take a deep breath, too—not that this gets them to stop blinking at each other. Not that it manages to pry Jensen's hand from its place—that only happens when he curls it up so tight that he digs his nails into his palm enough to hurt, even through the bunched-up sheets.

Once his hand is free, Jensen has no idea what it's doing. Every motion strikes him upside the head. Every feeling of the sheets underneath his palm. If not for Misha sitting in his lap, Jensen would be bouncing his leg—no one's ever been able to explain it to him, but current best bets say that it's an anxiety thing—he only manages to make himself hold back for fear that it might make Misha's tummy bounce around again. That might make it hard for Jensen to look anywhere else—already, he's having trouble not looking down at their laps, at Misha's tummy, at Misha's (softer and fuller and just a little bit pudgier, now that Jensen really notices them) thighs spread and wrapped around his own—or worse, it might spook Misha. Trip some body-conscious wire of his and send him running for his bedroom— _or to somewhere worse_ , Jensen can't help worrying, just given precedent, just given how Misha _gets_ about his body.

(worrying, yes, but he's still thankful for how, at the very least? getting anxious over maybe spooking Misha keeps him from having to think about car crashes or train-wrecks or that _Duchess of Malfi_ shit Danneel made him go see at the theatre once. at least worrying about Misha is a nicer way to kill his own potential hard-on.)

Jensen doesn't pay attention to where his hand decides to move, and before he can even think about stopping himself—before he so much as realizes what's going on, much less realized what's going on—he finds it resting on Misha's thigh. Splayed across a part where Misha's leg is softer, but still pretty thin. Jensen only realizes anything because the denim rubs hard on his palm as he squeezes Misha gently, as he sinks his fingers into Misha's flesh and the taut muscle sitting underneath it. Their eyes meet, briefly, before they both flush scarlet and return to staring at their laps—and despite thinking he should maybe stop, Jensen digs his hand and fingertips into Misha's thigh again—reassuringly, never mind anything else, but a little bit harder regardless.

"Uhm…" Misha starts, a ghost of pink rising to his cheeks as he scratches at the back of his neck, unsuccessfully tries to look up from Jensen's stomach. "In case you're wondering about it, Jenny? Yeah, I know they're really tight on you, and it's uncomfortable, and it's not gonna make eating as much as you want easy, but…" He sighs, shrugs, manages to draw his eyes up and meet Jensen's gaze, for all both of them blush so much harder at that. "I was gonna let you just wear pajamas or something, but… Jared _asked_ for button-popping, and I remembered you saying that you hadn't done it in so long, so I just assumed you'd be okay with it, and I didn't know if the forty-fours you've been wearing were tight enough, and… God, you're probably not even interested in hearing me ramble are you— _Jesus_ , Misha, shut _up_."

"You didn't… I mean, you don't… I mean, it's just…" Jensen takes a deep breath, but can't sigh—he has to release it slowly, lest he bust his pants before he's had any of the feast Misha put together for everyone. "You don't have to tell yourself to shut up all the time, you know? Makes me feel better about how much I can ramble at you when I get going—and I like it when you rant. You get all excited and stuff, and it's just… It's cute."

Misha's lips snap into a half-pursed kissy face and his eyes about double in size. His cheeks light up, pinker than a Hallmark store around Valentine's Day. He fusses with the back of his neck again, shuffles around on Jensen's lap, and says, "I just didn't want you to think I was torturing you without asking without there being some kind of reason for it, y'know, Jen? And I… I should probably go make sure everything's still set up right—I'm still not sure if I'm using the food-heating pseudo-burner things that Vicki got right, and… do you want a milkshake before everyone else shows up? Not a big one, it'll probably spoil your dinner too much, unless you want a big one, but it's been a while since breakfast, so I just thought…"

Jensen nods, and says a milkshake sounds good to him, yeah—and he should expect what's coming, but he still has to choke back on a whine when Misha wriggles around his lap, slips off his legs and onto the floor. Jensen still has to deal with the gobsmacked, gaping feeling in his chest as he watches Misha's feet walk off (only pausing so he can crouch down and pick up his sweater), hears them getting further and further away. Should he do this? Maybe. Maybe he shouldn't, though? It's not even a matter of Jensen having Jared—it's all a matter of not knowing what kind of mood Misha's really in, how sensitive or not he'll be to Jensen saying anything like what he's thinking…

"Misha," he lets slip, once Misha's feet get too close to the door for comfort. Trembling, Jensen forces himself to look up from the floor. To give Misha a wobbly, hopeful smile. This could go all kinds of wrong for both of them, but it could also go all kinds of right, and he just has to get it out there—"You look really good today, y'know? Without the sweater all covering you up, I mean?"

Misha ducks his chin—and Jensen can only tell enough to know that, although Misha doesn't have a double-chin just yet, there might be a little bit of extra pudge along his jawline. Still, he smiles as he flushes pink and mutters, "Thanks, Jenny. Y'know, you're not so bad yourself."

And that's the last from either of them before he's out into the corridor, leaving Jensen to figure out how the Hell he's suppose to even breathe in his jeans right now.

*******

Breathing's a chore in these jeans. Not even simply a chore; it feels more than a bit harsh. The waistband chafes up against Jensen's skin, slices into his stomach—worming his fingers down between his skin and the fabric doesn't help, either. He manages to stretch it out a bit, but he just ends up putting more pressure on himself, on his stomach, on everything. The angry red marks forming on his paunch only end up feeling worse, feeling like they'll end up deeper, redder—and that doesn't manage to stop Jensen from sucking in his stomach, exhaling harder than he needs to, just to feel his gut surge back out against his pants.

The roll of his over-belly folds down over his waistband, scrunching it up underneath the weight of this extra flab and pinning Jensen's straining button to his belly. It thwacks against him every time he shifts the smallest bit, nudging around and getting closer to the hollow of Jensen's bellybutton—when he lets his breath expand his stomach, he gets to feel it pressing into him that much more, and it makes his head spin. Not just from how these were too big for him not that long ago, not just from how much weight he's gained in so short a time, and not just from how he's doing this for Jared, because they both get off on him getting bigger, fatter.

No, what really sets Jensen's head reeling—so much more than just fondling his own belly and thinking about its size ever could—comes down to something much more simple. Namely: the pain. Jensen bends forward, as much as he can manage anyway, just to feel his waistband digging at his flesh that much more—which gets him thinking about how much tighter he could get these pants, about how much more fun he could have with this, if Jared were just here to help him with it. Not that Misha couldn't—but Jared's got the muscle enough to lace Jensen into a corset. He's never worn one before, but he imagines, based on Dani telling him about her different Renaissance Festival costumes, that it'd only hurt like Hell if they didn't do it right. As long as it didn't put Jensen in the ER, they wouldn't have to do it right.

Jensen can't let himself get too carried away with any of this—even as he drops back to the mattress and palms at his crotch, butts his hand up against his fly, he knows that he can't. Jerking off right now means he has to pry himself out of these, has change his shorts or suffer through wearing cum-filled underwear, risk everyone seeing the stain when he busts out of his pants. That thought doesn't help him calm down, any. Not in the slightest—it just sends a wave of heat sweltering down the back of his neck, makes his whole face flush hot and pink, leaves his tongue feeling thick like it's going to swell up and engulf his whole mouth—his stomach shudders and he worries harder at his crotch, worms his fingers between his pudgy thighs.

 _Don't get hard_ , he tries to tell himself. _Don't get hard, don't get hard_ —but it's useless; Jensen shifts on the mattress again, tries to scoot up so his knees dangle over the edge so much, and that makes his jeans chafe up against his skin so much more. He thinks about Jared—he thinks about the thought that Jared's getting bigger over there in England, filling up on fish-and-chips or God only knows what else—black pudding, or whatever British people eat—does it really matter? Jensen thinks about Jared getting fat, about how much bigger he might be when he comes back in February—about how much heavier he might be and about all that weight dropping onto Jensen's hips, about it bearing down on him, making all of Jared's thrusts into him that much rougher, that much more powerful…

 _Is that how you like it, Tiny?_ , the Jared in Jensen's head whispers, growling and grating his teeth up against Jensen's skin (before he even knows what's up, Jensen's digging his nails into his belly, just so he can pretend that Jared's doing it to him). _Is that how you like it? All rough and hard and heavy… I bet you want me bigger so it'll hurt that much more, don't you…_

And obviously, he must want that. Jensen doesn't even get hard, doesn't get the chance to work himself up properly. He gasps, whines, bites on his lower lip, and breathlessly moans as he comes in his pants.

*******

The problem, when Jensen wanders out of his room, isn't the sticky, drying mess in his underwear or the thought that someone else might find it.

The problem, Jensen finds, is Misha—or more specifically, how Misha makes it seem likely that Jensen's going to end up doing this, end up on his back and coming in his pants, all over again.

Misha's covered up again when Jensen finally joins him out in the kitchen, but it's a different sweater. This one's an all-black v-neck that looks like it ought to be Vicki's, except for how it's not as tight on Misha as one of Vicki's shirts might be. Banned from doing anything related to food-preparation—unless it's grocery shopping or calling in the take-out—Jensen sits down at the table and just watches while Misha fusses with the blender, with mixing up one of Jensen's milkshakes. Misha's too caught up in his work to notice, and for all black is slimming—for all it makes Jensen's work a little harder—Jensen's observant, and he takes full advantage of his best friend's distraction to get an eyeful of Misha's body.

As much of it as he can see while Misha's clothed, anyway. Not that he's thinking about Misha naked. Not that knowing Misha has a crush on him would suddenly make Jensen reciprocate or anything. He's pretty sure that isn't how it works.

From the side—not to mention in this sweater—Misha's tummy is so much more noticeable. Still not huge or anything, still nothing that Jensen would write home about—but it definitely protrudes, ever so slightly, and it rounds out against his belt. Not a proper muffin-top, but definitely a roll of pudge. These jeans fit Misha nicely, fitted throughout the ass and thighs, but not so tight that it looks like he's busting out of them. Judging from how they fit him so well, look so nice on him, they're either new or else Misha's been exaggerating how tight his other jeans have gotten on him, with all of that, _I swear to God, I'm going to rip them all to shreds before the semester's out, every single pair_ bullshit and self-abasing carrying on that he gets up to so often, these days.

More likely, it's a mix of both options, like so many things get to be with Misha. Sure, there's pretty much no way in Hell that he'll be fitting into his twenty-eights or thirties any time soon, and these jeans don't look worn-in enough to be an older pair—but Misha has a pretty skewed sense of proportion. He must be in a good mood, humming "Tainted Love" and dumping two extra scoops of the chocolate-flavored weight gain powder into the mixture (followed by an extra scoop of appetite stimulant), or else he'd probably get on some tirade about how the jeans hug his ass too tightly—which is so far from the truth that Jensen would have to scream and bodily shake Misha. On top of that, being black makes it harder for anyone to call the jeans unflattering. Nobody could even say that they make Misha look chubby, much less make him look fat.

Never mind how Jensen would deck anyone who tried. He'd punch that person right in the mouth and he wouldn't feel any kind of sorry for doing it, either. Because being fat's not a bad thing, but saying that Misha is when he isn't? Calling him fat when he's got ten miles of Issues about that? Is unforgivable to Jensen, in a _very_ platonic way.

But still and all, and either way? Nothing—not anything about the jeans or how perfect they are for the body image issues-having, self-abusing state of mind that Misha's been in lately—manages to hide the little curves at the top of Misha's thighs, the bit of flab on top of the muscle Jensen felt earlier, the way they're just starting to rub up against each other as he moves. Just like how nothing about this new sweater hides his cute little tummy.

As Misha bustles around the kitchen, chases everything down and gets it ready, sets up the stack of plates and cutlery, not to mention the aluminum trays full of food, Jensen can't hardly take his eyes off of that swell of pudge. It's too much, too different; he just can't look anywhere else. He watches as Misha bends over to check on the turkey in the oven, which makes his middle scrunch up in three distinct rolls—and which makes his ass fill out his jeans that much more, Jensen sees just from craning his neck a little bit. When Misha leans down on a clear strip of counter, his tummy pooches out so much more and almost dangles there, pushing out against Misha's shirt, sloping over his belt and waistband, falling out and back into it every time he lets out a deep, measured breath. And when he breathes normally, his little paunch strains against his sweater that much more—expands and pushes out, then shrinks back into place.

Jensen should really, _really_ look anywhere but here—not least because there's no way he can hide an erection with his jeans as tight on him as they are—but he can't. Not when Misha keeps putting on a show like he's doing, anyway. Even if he has no idea what he's doing or how it looks from where Jensen's sitting, it's too much to look away from—and he never looks around or gets close to catching Jensen in the act of ogling. Despite the best efforts of Jensen's delicious milkshake, his mouth keeps going dry from watching the gentle rise and fall of Misha's belly as he breathes. Watching it bump out against Misha's sweater and push the hem up ever so slightly around its curve. Watching it get bigger, fuller-looking, rounder—and thinking about how much bigger it might get if Misha's diet didn't work, if he kept gaining weight—which sends Jensen's heart plummeting into his stomach and makes his face flush hot with guilt.

Jesus _Christ_ , it's just a _tummy_ , what in the Hell is _wrong_ with him. He has a _boyfriend_. He's ogling his _best friend_ , and he has a _boyfriend_ , and he's actively thinking about someone else's tummy. About sabotaging a diet in the name of getting someone else's tummy bigger. It's just a goddamn _tummy_ —not any reason for Jensen to even vaguely think about someone other than Jared.

Worse than that, though: it's a tummy on _Misha_ , who probably has an eating disorder, who loves fat and pudge and flab on everybody but himself… and who gets so lost in his own head that he completely fails to notice Jensen staring at him. Absently, yawning (since he's probably been up and cooking since way too early), Misha makes his tummy get bigger-looking all over again, and he reaches down to nudge the hem of his sweater around. More than that, to nudge it up past his bellybutton—and scratch at his stomach. His fingers and his nails sink into his pudge, squeeze at it and gently jostle it around as Misha drags his fingers over it. And for all he should look somewhere else, Jensen can't help searching Misha's face for any sign of what he might be thinking—any sign of whether or not he's beating himself up instead of just letting it go without question that he doesn't have a flat stomach anymore, much less a concave one, and that's okay.

"D'you think we should've gotten more from the vegan Thai place?" Misha says dazedly, talking through a sigh, and even though he doesn't look over at Jensen, it makes Jensen startle, throw himself headlong into chugging his milkshake so he can cover it up that he's been ogling Misha. "I'm just thinking… I'm gonna go for it more than probably anything else, and I can never know if Dani's gonna be in one of her healthier food moods, and I know you like their spring rolls… I think I got enough of those, but then again, I can never tell with Genevieve, either, and I think she's gaining again, so… What d'you think?"

Jensen sighs in relief and shrugs, supposes that he doesn't know, but that they're probably fine. On top of the turkey and a triple order of stuffing, they've got an enormous batch of garlic bread, a huge pan of lasagna, one of sesame chicken from Jensen's favorite Chinese place, a plate full of spring rolls, big enough orders of Pad Thai (with chicken that Misha added, since he was dumping everything in a pan anyway), fried rice, and Pad Cashew—which is just tofu, vegetables, and the nuts in brown sauce. Never mind the heaps upon heaps of white rice. They've also got the host of desserts—two pies, two trays of brownies, a big cherry-chocolate cheesecake, and an overly large order of coconut sticky rice—and the grilled chicken and fresh vegetable salad that Misha made up, figuring that he and Danneel would eat it, at least.

"So, yeah, no… Whatever I'm going to end up eating, I think we're good to go with the food?" Jensen says, and polishes off what's left in his glass. He moves to get up, to get the rest of the milkshake in the blender—but Misha gets it for him, and once Jensen's got his refill, Misha leans back into the counter, showing Jensen his front and worrying his fingers all up and down his tummy-pudge.

After that, Jensen tries harder not to stare. Tries to just focus on his milkshake and let that be that. Tries to ward himself off ogling Misha with the reminder that Misha, being Misha, would take this staring all the wrong way, if he knew about it. He'd probably go on about how Jensen's just staring at him because he's getting fat, so obviously, he needs to berate himself and skip meals and work out until he's ready to faint, and they'll be at junior year all over again in the blink of an eye—and the part that hurts the most in that hypothetical situation is that he's not even getting fat. Not really. Not at all. At the most, he's still only a little soft around the edges, but this is a good look for him. Easygoing. Relaxed. _Not_ worrying about the soft, tubby, plumpish little thing underneath his hand—and even being kind of nice to it. Nice to himself about having it.

It doesn't get any easier, though. Not even a little bit. When someone finally knocks on the door, Jensen's done with his milkshake and even with the mess in his pants, he's never been more grateful for other people to show up in his fucking _life_.


	21. Solid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen happily makes a Thanksgiving spectacle of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the original prompt, this chapter uses: "motion sickness," "restrained," "WILD CARD (body image issues)," "scars" and "bites" as a single-line extra for ~hc_bingo; "you are cordially invited" for 100 things ([reference prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560177.html)); "exposure/exhibitionism," "painplay (other)," "subspace/headspace," and "humiliation (situational)" as a postage stamp extra for ~kink_bingo.

Mark's the first person to show up, and as though they didn't have enough desserts, he comes with a triple-layer German chocolate fudge cake and a family size bag of peanut butter M&M's in-hand. Some few moments later, he's followed by Vicki, Danneel, and Genevieve, who all come in a group—and Misha might not be sure, or maybe he's withholding his judgment for whatever reason, but it's obvious to Jensen just from hugging her and giving her a once-over that Gen's back to gaining again. Considering how observant Misha is about weight—his own and other people's—it's so weird that he hasn't noticed that Genevieve's putting on weight.

In fairness to Misha and his… whatever's going on for him, she's not that much bigger, yet, but she's probably gained a good ten pounds or so—a decent amount for a girl who's only five-foot-four. There's enough more of her that her black shirt's buttons strain around her rounder, pudgier stomach, the fabric bowing out and riding up to expose the pale roll of flab that sags over her belt, pooches out over her waist and even droops to cover the hollow of her bellybutton. Her jeans are snugger around her hips, too, and her muffin-top goes all the way around, scrunching her jeans' straining waistband everywhere, except for in the back, where she has an extra set of cleavage from her pants being so tight.

Once everyone's welcomed in and Jensen's settled back at the table, the rules are quite simple: whatever anyone puts in front of him, he eats. No questions. No ifs, ands, or buts—unless he's raising his voice to get more of whatever it is he wants. No one gets to work on him before Misha kicks things off—nothing against anyone else's choices, he explains; it's just his right as Jensen's temporary feeder and as the Jared-appointed documentarian of this festival of food. And, finally, Jensen's not allowed to move, except to feed himself, get to the couch, or go to the bathroom—and he can't manage the latter unless it's an emergency or he's busted his pants already.

He doesn't tell Misha how the rules make his heart flutter and his head spin, not least since it'd require admitting to the whole issue of his pants and the biological mess that's sticking to his dick, starting to crust up on his skin and the fabric. Never mind how there are people around—people who could all get the wrong idea, and one of whom is Jared's cousin, so the wrong idea could get back to him too easily.

Doesn't end up mattering that much—what really matters is the food. True to form, Misha starts Jensen off with quite a bit to work through: a heaping pile of turkey and stuffing, all absolutely dripping in gravy (which Misha's melted at least a stick and a half of butter into, or maybe even two, just from the taste); more Pad Thai and sesame chicken than Jensen would've thought they had, even considering the dishes that Misha's kept them in; a pile of fried rice; and all of the food's put together on a platter that should be serving up a table full of people. With a heavy sigh, preemptively rubbing his stomach, Jensen picks up a fork starts in on the plate, on the veritable mountain of delicious food. He gets working before anyone else has even sat down with him.

Not that he means to rush things or be impolite. Not that he wants anything like that to come across. He's in for a treat tonight, sure, and he guesses that it could wait a little while. It's just that his kind of treat involves Jensen doing an awful lot of work, and considering he's signed up for at least seconds of dinner and thirds of dessert? It only seems fitting that he get the Hell to work, before he can lose any strength or resolution, before his will can falter.

*******

By the time Misha's dished himself up a bowl of salad, Jensen's already halfway into the pile of stuffing—and he digs up a bigger forkful of it after only getting a Pointed Glance, an equally Pointed Arch Of Misha's Eyebrow, and a Significant Crunch Of Crisp, Dressing-Free Lettuce. He smirks in return, before he stretches his lips out and around the lump of stuffing and gravy. Doesn't hesitate in stabbing a huge hunk of turkey before he's even finished chewing. He moves through the food quickly, but tries to chew it all as thoroughly as possible—he has to cram it down before his gut might decide he's full or that it wants to fight back, but the more he works it over first, the more he can fit in himself.

Misha doesn't say anything, no matter how much Jensen looks at him, no matter how many wobbly glances he gets. He picks at his salad—not ignoring it, just eating it slowly and deliberately, talking to Vicki and Mark in between each bite, comparing notes on their freshmen and complaining about how their sections of their different classes are going. He's doing the exact opposite of what Jensen's up to as he plows through the turkey, starts shoveling the Pad Thai noodles (thick and drenched with peanut sauce) into his mouth; he's trying to trick himself into feeling full by making sure he gives his stomach more time to process each chunk of lettuce, or chicken, or vegetables. Jensen recognizes the trick from the last diet he was ever on, the one he did with Danneel before asking Jared out.

So much for Misha's tummy—Jensen sighs and practically inhales the noodles still left on his plate, barely chews the chicken and tofu cubes enough. Thankfully, he doesn't choke on them, but as they scrape down his throat, he _does_ wish that he'd done a better job on them. It's too much to let his mind wander over to what Misha's eating for himself, how he's probably going to skip dessert. It's too much to let himself think that this whole stupid diet of his is so unnecessary, that all it's going to do (if precedent holds) is make him eat less and less, get worse to himself and worse to himself, until they might as well be back to where they got in junior year—with one (1) emaciated Misha needing to force himself to just look at food, much less eat any.

It's too much to think that Misha might actually be happy, cute little tummy and all, if only he'd wake the fuck up and realize that he's no less awesome for having one—but at least it kicks Jensen on. Trying to run from the sinking feeling in his chest just makes his stomach gurgle that much more, makes him feel hungrier. On the other hand, that might be the appetite stimulant kicking in—this is a new thing that they're trying out, something that Misha got recommended to him from some friend Jensen's probably never met. (Not that he'd really know for sure, since Misha refuses to give the friend a name; all he says is that they email pretty regularly.) As he finishes up his first plate, Jensen sighs, drops a hand down to knead his belly as he still chews on the last bite of chicken and rice.

"Hey, Gen?" Misha says, almost as soon as Jensen's swallowed, still not looking over at him, though. "Can you fill Jensen up again? And feel free to get as creative as you want with it—just make sure he's got some of the rice or some of the gravy, okay? He needs the extra calories from the butter."

"Oh, shit, you mixed butter in the fried rice, too?" Genevieve says as her entire face lights up. "I'll have to get in on that, too, then. But… can't you make Mark or Dani do it? I'm not supposed to be wasting precious calories, either."

Misha blinks at her and scrunches up his nose like it's not completely obvious what she's talking about—and what the Hell, maybe it's not to Misha. Maybe he's accidentally defending his title as King Of The Space Cadets. Or maybe he's just being perplexed at her: "Well, I'm avoiding both of said things, and so is Danneel, and there's a post-it note on the dish that _says_ I mixed butter into it for Jensen's benefit, so I kinda thought it was fairly obvious that I augmented the rice?"

"Yeah, right, like I read the post-it note on the rice," Gen scoffs and sets down her fork. Smirking, she leans her head back; she combs her hair back with both pudgy hands, and she ties it up with the ponytail-holder on her chunky wrist. "'scuze me for getting a little bit distracted by the sex-ass spread you put together for everyone. I've never had take-out for Thanksgiving dinner, but I'm gonna push for it every Thanksgiving after this and it's completely, entirely your fault."

Misha shrugs. "I promised Jensen some well-mannered Thanksgiving bingeing before I went and promised you guys a place to come crash for the holiday," he says. "Now, are you going to go get him some food, or are you going to keep being difficult?"

"I'm not being difficult! I just can't go wasting calories, either, y'know." With a wry smile, she ghosts he hand up and down her plush middle, jostles it around for effect—and probably just to show off how much bigger it's gotten. "I'm all about putting on a few right now—Dani's even in charge of making sure I get my seconds and dessert—wasting calories is, like, spitting on a crucifix in front of a priest or something."

"Oh, please. Jesus was a total sub—he'd be all over you spitting on his face and calling him your bitch. I mean, just tell me Mary Magdalene and Judas didn't own that ass. It's true because I said so, and that means you should do me this one teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy little favor, okay?"

"Nothing doing, Handsome." Genevieve pats her belly again, shakes her head, shoves a huge forkful of lasagna in her mouth—and she has to go and moan in such a way that makes Jensen want to fucking _beg_ someone to get him some, too. "My fat ass," she says, "is staying right the fuck here."

Misha rolls his eyes, heaves a deep breath, and siiiiiiiighs. He wilts to the side and onto Vicki's shoulder, drops his head there and stays quiet for a moment, just nuzzling at her like an extremely possessive cat. It's kind of cute, how he's acting like somebody just told him that he can't get a pony for Christmas this year, how utterly ridiculous he gets when someone refuses to let him dom them—however subtly, and however much the teasing's all in good fun. And looking up at her with what's probably the saddest, most pitiful-looking pout that he can manage, Misha asks if his favorite sister wouldn't mind going to get Jensen a refill on his plate before he starts to feel full or something. And if she wouldn't mind maybe and possibly making sure that Jensen gets some of the lasagna and garlic bread, pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top?

"Only if you promise to stop demeaning yourself by begging like you're a freaking five-year-old, Lazy-Bones," she says with a huff, reaching up to ruffle Misha's hair, despite what she has to say on the matter.

"Do you have any idea what I did today, Vicki?" Misha furrows his brow and pouts harder, and Jensen buries his snicker in his glass of whole milk. "I got up early to go for a run, then I've been cooking pretty much all day. So you people could have a nice holiday."

"Yeah, sure, I'm _certain_ that you slaved away in front of a hot telephone, ordering all that take-out."

"Well, technically, I did that yesterday and just had to reheat the take-out today—but I _did_ reheat it, and I still had to cook the turkey and the stuffing, and I—"

"Okay, okay!" Vicki holds up her hands in mock surrender and ruffles Misha's hair again. "Point gotten and understood—get your head off me and I'll go get Jensen his seconds."

*******

As it turns out, Vicki has tastes that run similar to her brother's, at least when it comes to feeding Jensen. His second plate comes back with even more food than the first one—piled high with more turkey, stuffing, and gravy, a huge slice of lasagna, two slices of garlic bread (which have butter baked into them already, and Jensen plans on liberally adding more), and another round of the sesame chicken, all breaded and drenched in spicy, slightly sweet sauce. He could give up on cutlery and tear into this feast with his bare hands, if he weren't wearing a shirt that he kind of likes unstained. That he's partial to, that he wants to look its best for as long as possible.

Before he can dig in, though, Danneel's responsible for refilling his glass of milk—for telling Jensen that he can't hardly eat all of that without something to wash it down—which just leaves Jensen savoring the mix of scents for a moment. All of them are thick and slightly sweet, some with a hint of spice—his mouth floods rather than just watering at the smell of them. Never mind how much he's eaten already today, Jensen's stomach growls like he hasn't eaten anything in hours. Just to make sure that he's got enough room for more, Jensen drops a hand to his stomach, kneads into his flesh, rubs himself down in the hopes of speeding up digestion, clearing out some space.

If he's had any worries about his stomach's paltry capacity wearing out on him, or about hitting his limits, they vanish—disappear in the face of these scents. Every single one of them smacks into Jensen's nostrils and slithers its way up, plummets to his stomach without waiting around that long. He sighs and shudders, trembles all over, right down to the quivering flab on his belly and the way he jerks his knees together, smashes his thighs into each other. Savors the way they smush around and grind up against each other, all soft and crammed so tightly into these jeans that the seams might rip from the smallest movement, the smallest extra strain on them. Jensen's half-surprised that they haven't gone and split themselves already, and the thought that they might gets his head spinning almost as much as the smells.

That enjoyment doesn't last, by necessity more than anything else. Jensen has to spread his legs a bit just to make room and accommodate his belly on any normal day, but while he's stuffing it? All bets are off. It already hurts to hold his belly in this position—all making it rest higher than it wants to, settle too high because his lap just had to get in the way—and once he has his milk, Jensen gets his fork and knife in-hand and tears into the feast. Into wolfing it down. It must be the appetite stimulant's fault, it has to be thanks to that chocolate-flavored miracle worker that Jensen gets all the way through his heaping plate of seconds. Even going as quickly as he can, trying to trick his stomach into thinking that it's not that full, he notices that his gut starts complaining—his belly protests against him cramming so much food into it and pushes out against his shirts, his pants.

But they don't burst, yet. They don't burst through the whole of his third plate, either—and Misha makes sure to pile this one even higher than Vicki piled the second one. Maybe he's trying to show her up. Maybe he feels like he's not doing his job as temporary feeder well enough. Maybe he's just doing his job, as Jared commissioned him to do. The reason doesn't matter nearly as much as the end result: a heap of lasagna that gives an impression like Misha expects Jensen to suffocate on it; more turkey, stuffing, and gravy than either of the previous plates have had; and a few pieces of sauce-drenched almond chicken, crammed onto the plate and looking ready to jump off onto the carpet. Just breathing gets Jensen's jeans to dig into his flab that much harder, and he wants so badly to just unbutton them—but he's so stuffed by now that even sucking in with all his might wouldn't let them get the things done up again.

As he eats, Jensen's vaguely aware of the camera going off in his face, of everyone else in the room gathering up to watch him chow down. Even Mark—who's so insistent on maintaining his snarky, cynical shell—comes around, slouches forward in his seat, resting an elbow on the table and watching Jensen like he's a some kind of exhibit in a museum. Maybe some kind of performance art piece about consumer culture or body image issues or finding your own path to self-actualization without letting anybody else stop you. It hurts, as Jensen shovels bite after enormous bite into his mouth—his stomach groans in protest, even while it whines for more, tells him that he's still hungry and still needs to eat—but no matter how much pain he gets around his ballooning middle, no matter how hard his stomach gets or how uncomfortably his jeans chafe up on him, slice into his flesh, Jensen presses on, keeps eating, eating, eating.

And the fact that he can still put a spin on this exhibitionist display? That he's still thinking anything more coherent than, _yeah, that's right, watch me eat, just sit and watch, focus on me like that, yeah…_ or, _I bet you all love watching me, I bet you'll all get off to those pictures later even though they're just supposed to be for Jared, I bet you can't get enough of this shit, can you_? Well, that's just a problem, isn't it. Jensen can't stop eating until his thoughts devolve into strings of random syllables and little else. …Or until he ruins these jeans past the point of ever getting fixed. Whichever happens first.

Jensen's fourth plate of dinner is more modest than its predecessors, but that's okay, because it's really only meant to tide him over—keep him constantly eating—until Misha's ready with his first plate of dessert and until Vicki and Gen have helped him over to the sofa and rubbed his belly enough that he feels like he could take on a five-pound steak. Until Misha's mixed him up another milkshake—this one with twice the amount of their weight gain powder that its two predecessors had. Until, as though that and the promise of Misha's gone and pulled a goddamn ice cream cake out on top of everything else—no wonder he's kept Jensen out of the fridge all day. Crafty little jackass with his surprises.

Settling into the sofa might give Jensen room to lean back, room to stretch out against the cushions and make himself more comfortable, but it doesn't mean that his belly's any less of a sight. All round and increasingly hard, it strains against all of his clothes—and with one look from Misha, one quick reminder that the pictures are going to be for Jared, Jensen wriggles out of his sweater-vest. Or, well, Danneel helps him out of it, guides his arms around as she pulls it up and off of him, in the name of not wasting any of the calories he's taken in today. Makes sense enough to Jensen and to everyone else, besides.

He looks down at how his shirt's fitting him now, how the fabric bows out around the straining buttons, showing off little slips of skin. Sucking on his milkshake, Jensen keeps one hand preoccupied with rubbing his stomach, at least until Vicki offers to take over for him. And well, far be it from Jensen to turn down a belly rub, even if Danneel's taking pictures of it while Misha gets dessert dished up. Even if Jared might see the pictures and possibly get jealous, it doesn't matter enough to get past how good it feels. Vicki's hands are warm and her fingers are a little bony, digging into Jensen's flesh everywhere she pinches or rubs at him, kneading at the hard, round lump that his stomach's turned into tonight.

It makes no difference, either, because by the time he's slurped down the last of his milkshake, Jensen's still stuffed and bloated enough that the button on the fullest part of his middle snaps off. Underneath the new hole, Jensen's skin is hard and redder than a Santa Claus suit, judging from the picture that Danneel lets him see. Never mind that, though, because the button on Jensen's jeans still won't come off. He's even left the zipper up, so as to put more strain on the button—it's decidedly past the point where it should have come off, where it might've come off for anybody else—but still, nothing's happening with it. Still, the button stays doggedly in place, resiliently clinging and hanging on to the fabric, digging into his belly.

Nothing happens until he's partway through his fourth plate of dessert and sucked down another milkshake as a palate-cleanser, besides. So far, Jensen's lost track of everything he's had—he must've gotten through most of a tray of brownies, to say nothing of all the slices of cake and pie, with the whipped cream, hot fudge, and generous scoops of ice cream on top. He gave up on counting down his bingeing session when it got too hard for him to move his arms, when Misha had to give up on taking pictures. When he turns that job over to Danneel and turns his attention to making sure Jensen gets fed. On one side of him, Vicki keeps rubbing Jensen's belly—massaging at his stomach even when he snaps another button off his shirt—working him over, dabbing at the sweat beading up on his forehead, and making sure that he has room enough for more.

On his other side, though, Misha kneels close to him, spoons forkful after forkful of food into his mouth, tells Jensen when to chew, when to swallow—and Jensen can't even hardly pick out where his stomach hurts anymore. Everything's gotten drawn up into the warm, floating feeling that smacks into everything, leaving Jensen thinking that this is for Jared, that all he needs is more orders, more direction, that it's really kinda hot when Misha gets bossy with him, snapping at him to chew faster so he can get more and more into him, and… _snap! ping!_

Jensen sighs so hard that his whole body shudders as his belly surges forward with all of its might, shoving his zipper down and his fly aside like it's made out of wet paper. He doesn't even care about the stain on his shorts anymore, or how much he needs to wash the sticky mess off—he doesn't care that everyone can probably see it; he wants them to see it and call him disgusting. He doesn't care that he feels sick or that he's gonna toss and turn all night. Because everything absolutely pales in comparison to how good it feels, having finally burst the button off another pair of jeans.

*******

Probably because of how much eating Jensen did on Thanksgiving—how much he stuffed himself silly—Misha makes him wait a few days for another weigh-in, even though it's been a while since he weighed in at two-sixty-five. No big deal, though. Jensen fills Black Friday and Saturday with leftovers and milkshakes, and on Sunday morning, the scale's tinny, automated voice informs him that he's up to two-seventy-three. Cold and a little too soft, Misha's measuring tape makes him shiver when it snakes around his middle, clocks him in at a little bit more than forty-seven inches around—but not quite forty-seven-and-a-half, not yet.

Jensen huffs, rolls his eyes, and supposes that the technicalities don't really matter, do they. He needs new jeans, whatever the measurement is, and damn the good sense of everything (and definitely damn the lack thereof)—he can get up to forty-seven-and-a-half by next weekend. At the very least, he's certainly going to try.


	22. Oh, Right, That.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha's progress toward health is debatable but present, and pretty much everyone wishes he'd let taking next semester off be less than hypothetical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used are: "job-related trauma for hc_bingo and, "restless" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

On the one hand, Misha's happy for Monday, for an excuse to get out of the apartment and skulk back to work, back to the four weeks of term left until Christmas break. As the weekend wears on, it gets harder and harder to ignore all of the Thanksgiving leftovers in the fridge, to ignore how Jensen seems to take his sweet time polishing them off. In fairness, they have a lot left to eat and Jensen sucks down milkshakes with a ferocity that Misha's never seen in him before, at least three every day and five on Sunday. But Jensen needs to eat faster so Misha won't have to look at the goddamn food and feel tempted, won't have to scratch the inside of his pudgy thighs just to remind himself that he can't go and slip up now. Not when he has so much left to work for, so much weight left to lose.

On the other hand, it isn't _fair_. When Misha weighs in on Monday, he's only down to one-eighty-six—he guesses that it hasn't been that long between his weigh-ins, but for all the high-calorie food that he's deprived himself—for all the working out he's been sure to do—it's not fair that he should only have lost a pound. It's not fair that, when he rides his bike to campus, he should be hiding his body in a pair of Jensen's old jeans and one of Grandma Krushnic's sweaters—the blue one that he almost wore on Thanksgiving, the one she made him for the Christmas from his senior year of high school, the one he likes because it's loose on him, but not that baggy. It's not fair that he should _know_ he's, for once, wearing clothes that actually fit him—that he should have evidence of how he doesn't look that chubby, in the form of bathroom mirror shots on his cellphone—but that he still feels like a baby whale.

That feeling doesn't get any better as the day wears on. In his first class, Misha has to suffer through turning down a freshman who made pre-finals cupcakes for the whole class, through watching her make a sad puppy face at him until he takes one and swears that he'll eat it later. In his second, he's certain that everyone who whispers before class starts must be talking about him, about how their TA's gone from fit to flab, from hot to not, from cute to chunky, all in the space of a semester. By the time Misha gets to his desk in Edlund's office, he's ready to start tearing out his hair because of course, all of this is irrational. That's basically the worst part of everything he's thinking: it's irrational, but it persists and he can't get it to go away, just let him alone or leave him be or anything.

So, he turns to the computer, taps off an email to Matt about how he's obsessing and he hates it—how he hates that he knows that he's obsessing but can't seem to stop it, because he's put on weight this semester and for all he knows that this isn't going to end well, should he let it keep going on, it still feels like the only way that he'll be happy. _Which is stupid and makes me an idiot_ , he says, _because it's never made me happy before and anyway? All it's making me feel anymore is miserable. Mark's not telling me what to do, either. He's making a bunch of suggestions that I've already thought of, mostly, but that I can't do. I mean, where's the sense in putting in for mental health leave now when I don't have a shrink to fill out the doctor's note and I'm still finishing this semester, even if I apparently can't get through a class without thinking that one of my students is calling me, "fat-ass" under their breath?_

By the time that Jensen and Vicki show up, intent on dragging Misha away from his chicken Caesar salad and taking him out for a proper lunch, he barely has it in him to protest anything. It's some kind of miracle that he raises his voice enough to make them see sense about ordering something in instead. Maybe a walk would be good for Misha, but not for Jensen, and besides, Misha only had two hardboiled eggs for breakfast. If they want to make sure he's not starving himself again, then they can be sure he's not exercise bingeing either. And it's better if fewer people out in the world get the chance to see Misha eating.

*******

"So you're actually going to eat that when it shows up, right?" Vicki says, once they're off the phone with Zingerman's Deli and Misha's ordered a turkey burger with mozzarella on top. She eyes him like he's some kind of expensive porcelain vase, like he might break if she glances at him the wrong way—and for all he doesn't particularly want to see that expression on her face, Misha's not entirely sure that he doesn't deserve it. "I'm being serious, Misha. You're not just going to cut it up and push it around the styrofoam? Or tell us that you're not hungry now, so you'll eat it later, and then you never really do?"

Misha's not entirely sure he can begrudge her that question, either. He'd probably ask himself the same thing, if he were in her shoes—but instead of giving her a straight answer like she deserves, all he does is shrug, suppose that he'll eat most of it, probably. Because most of it's not that bad for him—most of it's actually pretty good, thus the basis of its appeal. Most of it's just protein and vegetables, so it should be fine enough, overall, and really, there's no reason why Misha can't eat it. Most of it won't leave Misha feeling absolutely sick with himself over how much he's eaten and how awful it is or isn't for his purported diet.

All he does in response to Jensen asking what the Hell that's supposed to mean is sigh, fold up his arms, and rest his cheek on them like a pillow. "It means that I'm not going to eat the bread or the pickles and that there is a reason why I got a side salad instead of fries, okay, Jenny?" Misha says, burrowing against his forearms, glaring up at Jensen—as much as he can manage to glare when all he really wants is to go back to bed. "I just don't _like_ the pickles. Just, I genuinely don't like them, okay? I'm _allowed_ to not like things."

"You're adorable," Jensen huffs, pointedly arching his eyebrow. "Except for when you're getting in between me and my ability to make sure that you're really as okay as you keep telling us you are. Which I'm not buying for the moment."

"I just said that I'd feel sick with myself because I _would_ be, not because I think it's a _good thing_ ," Misha points out and holds up a finger to make Jensen stifle himself for just a minute. "Do I acknowledge that it's not a good thing? Absolutely—I think it fucking _sucks_ , and I'd kind of love to be rid of it right now… but since I'm not rid of it right now and it's something that I have to deal with? I'm just making it known that it's something I'm dealing with. That's it. Okay?"

Jensen sighs, and guesses that this sounds okay, then narrows his eyes, furrows his brow, as something occurs to him. "Are you sneaking around to have sessions with Mark again? Because… I'm not really sure I approve of that."

"I'm not _sneaking_." Misha rolls his eyes, nuzzles against his arm by way of shaking his head. "If I were actually sneaking around, you wouldn't ever hear anything about it, for better or for worse, in terms of taking his advice or not. And right now, I'm choosing to take his advice and be open with you two about shit. Because I'd probably just get a lot worse, actually, if I had to lie to you about getting advice from him."

"Much as I hate saying this when I have reason to suspect you're being even vaguely self-destructive—and I _do_ hate it—" Vicki leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands, wrinkling her nose like an irritated kitten. "I'm glad you're at least talking to somebody you put into a vaguely therapeutic context. Even if I wish you'd go to health services or an _actual_ therapist instead. The mental health section of the former isn't as bad as the, 'if you're not pregnant, then you probably have a mild upper respiratory infection' section."

"I'm not going to health services," Misha says flatly. "I've thought about it and I still don't see the point when I've got Mark."

"The point is that Mark isn't a goddamn therapist?" Jensen drawls, trying (and failing) to mask a snicker. "The point is that Mark can't give you meds if you need them—or I guess he could, but it'd be really, _really_ fucking illegal for him to do that—and Mark can't write a note to get you out on mental health leave next semester—"

"That's still very much a hypothetical," Misha points out, snapping more than he means to. "I haven't committed to that idea yet at all. It's definitely on the table, and… yeah, I guess you could question what's so bad about cutting off the rest of this semester, but… I want to get the credits done, right? And we'll have that… six-week work period when we get back. I can put in for leave then, if I'm going to go through with it. Which…" Misha huffs, holds up his finger again, "I am still on the fence about doing, so there."

With his finger up, Misha just means to get Jensen to cram it about the _mental health leave_ thing, but since holding it near Jensen's face hasn't worked yet, Misha reaches over to jab his finger into Jensen's stomach. His pudge is soft underneath Misha's touch— _no shit, Sherlock, he's only getting pretty close to two-seventy-five, of course he's fucking soft around the belly_ —but Misha pokes him in just the right spot to feel a lingering bit of hardness, lingering evidence of how full he stuffed himself over his breakfast of leftovers (complete with two slices of Mark's triple-layer chocolate cake, because who says that cake can't be a goddamn breakfast food)—and Misha should try harder not to react, should try harder to pull his hand away, but he can't—he flushes bright pink, drags his finger down the outward curve of Jensen's stomach—and then he fucks up. He fucks up so hard that he could fucking kick himself.

Misha's fuck up is that he looks up. That he meets Jensen's eyes. Feels his cheeks get hotter still, feels some Novocaine-thick numbing clatter into his tongue and take away any hope he has to say anything at all, feels his hand moving without him telling it to do so, snaking down to Jensen's bellybutton and grabbing up a huge roll of belly fat. All while Jensen's watching him do it, looking right at him—not to mention while Vicki's right there and… okay, Misha doesn't think she really talks to Jared all that much, but she's still a witness, she could still take this anecdote somewhere else, somewhere outside the room—Misha sighs, gives Jensen a hard pinch—chokes back on another sigh as he digs his fingers into Jensen's soft, ample flab… Then jerks his hand away not because he knows it's wrong—knows he shouldn't be feeling up somebody else's boyfriend, much less his best friend—but because the office door creaks open and Doctor Edlund wanders in from the corridor.

Misha gasps upright, darts his hands into his lap, tries to ignore the way that he's flushing so much hotter, so much redder when all he's getting from his boss is an amiable smile, a waved _hello_ , a shake of his head and his unruly tentacles of salt-and-pepper hair. _Stop it, Misha, stop it. You're being an idiot—Edlund isn't going to ask for anything, or get upset about you having guests during your lunch hour, or—_

"Jensen? Vicki?" Doctor Edlund says, turning back from the door into his inner office, hand still on the knob. "Do you two mind if I borrow Misha for a minute? I'll get him back in time for lunch. Promise."

*******

Unfortunately for Misha, Jensen and Vicki have no problem letting Edlund borrow him. Unfortunately for Misha, none of his mutterings of _but lunch will be here soon_ or _but I was trying to work on something too_ or anything else work—his boss wants to have a chat and won't be deterred. He holds his office door open until Misha sulks inside, sure that this is going to go terribly. Even if it goes halfway well, it's going to go terribly.

Misha shudders as Edlund nudges the door shut behind them—he should have a better handle on his reactions, as ever, but he can't help it—his boss and advisor needs Misha in the office and that can't be good. No part of it can be any kind of good. Even as he sits in the chair opposite Edlund, even as he nods and supposes that yeah, he's kinda stressed about finals coming up but that nothing else is going all that badly. Not in any way worth noting, at least. Misha's thoughts turn to a hideous tattoo of _not good, not good, not good, not good_ —it beats right in time with his overexcited fucking heart.

"Well, far be it from me to tell you how you're feeling about anything. Much less about _everything_ ," Edlund says, and Misha wishes to God that he could teach that lesson to some choice people in the rest of Misha's life. Some choice people who really do just want to help and that's kind of the whole problem sometimes. Like when they have no real idea what they're trying to help with, for instance—but since Misha can't very well go bothering his boss with all of that—since Edlund can't come teach Misha's support network how to do their jobs—and since Misha's not really going to ask him to, either, they're just stuck with whatever's on Edlund's mind.

Misha's stuck sweating it out as he watches his professor, looking for anything that might hint at what Edlund wants to talk about. With a sigh, Edlund folds his hands up on the desk, gives Misha one of his wry, enigmatic little smiles. "I'd be lying if I said that there hasn't been some concern for you, on my part," he says. "Finals stress makes sense, though, and I trust that you can handle whatever happens."

 _You probably shouldn't trust that—I'm not even sure that I trust that right now_ , Misha wants to say, but skips over. Instead, he nods, and combs his hand back through his hair, and says that he can absolutely handle whatever happens. "And for when I maybe haven't been on top of things, I've got Jensen and Vicki and Mark—he's a friend I don't think I've had around before? But I've got him—and everything's as fine as it can be?"

"Well, that's better than all the alternatives." Edlund snickers as though he's thinking about the alternatives, could actually list them off—and knowing him, they'd probably involve monsters and horror and they'd still be infinitely better than the fact that Misha's wearing a pair of Jensen's old jeans and they aren't all that loose on him. They aren't tight, either, to be fair, but fitting perfectly is still something that a pair of thirty-sixes really shouldn't be allowed to do.

Playfully, Edlund's smirk stays up as he says, "So… how's the thesis proposal going? You wanted to get started on writing it up early, right?"

Misha _sighs_ , leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling, even though it doesn't have an answer for him. If only Misha could answer that question with the only four words on his mind: _fuck my fucking life_.


	23. Stitched together with good intentions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(414): I wish there was a "friends who have gained the most weight since high school" filter on facebook for when I am feeling fat._ Or: in which Misha has Tuesday off, so he spends it alone with his hand and some mildly vindictive Facebook stalking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used in this chapter are: "self-harm" for ~hc_bingo and, "black ice" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

Where Monday only let Misha down, Tuesday's going to be better—he believes this with every fiber of his being, and he's going to make it true, if it kills him. And he starts everything off right—at the very least, he tries to—he starts off by dragging himself out of bed early and heading out for his morning run. He sets a timer on his watch, just to make sure that he doesn't overdo it—because it's too likely that he'll end up exhausting himself, or hurting himself, and it's just not a good idea, overall, to stay out as long as he knows he can.

Besides, it would worry the people who care about him, and it won't make his thesis proposal actualize—really, it'll probably just make that problem harder to handle.

So, Misha heads out to the park a few blocks from his and Jensen's place, and he only means to stay out for an hour. That's all he needs. It's a few good laps of the park, it'll get his heart pumping properly, it'll get him sweating like he needs to get. Sure, it means he has to spend a while with his thighs jiggling up against each other like Jello molds, all the while fully aware of how his stomach, lurking underneath his hoodie, strains against his t-shirt when he tries to draw in breaths deep enough to make any difference, make him feel more resolved.

But that's just what Misha gets for letting himself slip up so badly in the first place—if anything, it ought to motivate him to get with his program. Remind him of what he needs to get back.

Which he knows is self-defeating thinking, at the best. Or if it's not that exactly, then it's some kind of incredibly stupid self-sabotage—he's just going and making himself feel worse about everything in his life because his midsection's gone a little convex, a little soft around the edges. It's not as bad as he could be—it's not as bad as he has been, for all Misha knows that kind of thinking can't hang around too much or it's a one-way ticket back to being goddamn enormous—it's not as bad as he knows his weight and size can get, even if thinking like that is part of why he ever got as huge as he's been.

But it's still not as bad as he wants himself to think because he can still run in the way he likes to do. He can still track through the park, hear his heart beating and his sneakers thumping on the pavement without feeling like he's going to fall over. He's not all that bad off. Not really. Could be worse. He could be a lot worse, actually, and it's good that he's not. But on the other hand, there's something wrong—his timer hasn't gone off yet, he's stopped counting laps, but Misha's breath starts getting heavier and his legs finally start to wobble. Every muscle he's been working burns and his chest just outright catches fire—or at least, it feels like it does.

Misha pants, stumbling to a momentary halt as another runner cuts across his path—he could swear that everything's going grey and wobbly around the edges of his vision. He has to push himself to finish two more laps of the park—he has to tell himself that there's no reason he ought to stop, no reason he should be allowed to stop, no reason that he needs to stop—and once he's on the other side of his second lap, heaving a deep breath, Misha gives up. Heads for home.

He only hopes that Jensen's in bed, or the shower, or already gone to work, or just somewhere where he can't see Misha stumbling through the door—but before he's even got the door closed, he hears Jensen gasp, gets hit in the face with one of the kitchen towels—he barely manages to catch it as it falls—and then, gets dragged over to the table. He sits down without a fuss, wipes the sweat off his face without a word, and drinks the glass of water Jensen gives him without looking up at him.

Misha just nods by way of saying _thanks_ and checks his watch instead—fuck, he knew he forgot something; he should've double-checked the timer before just assuming that he actually turned the thing on—and keeps his head down as Jensen takes the seat opposite him, as he gets back up because Misha's not saying anything.

"When the Hell did you go out?" Jensen says eventually.

He says this once he's gotten himself six of the hardboiled eggs from the fridge and made up his own milkshake, put on the coffee because it's one of the few things in the kitchen that he can't screw up. He makes the milkshake following the directions pinned to the fridge and improvises on one count. Namely: he puts in too many scoops of weight gain powder, but big deal, Misha's not especially bothered by that, especially not considering how much of the stuff he puts into Jensen's shakes.

Sighing as he sits down again, Jensen takes two of the eggs out of his bowl and rolls them across the table; Misha catches them, but still shakes his head—Jensen shunts a napkin his way and Misha just shakes his head again—which gets him one of Jensen's patented groans. It's the one that screams _why do you make me want to kick you in the head about this stuff?_ —or that's what Misha gets out of it, anyway. He's certain that he's probably at least half-right.

"I'm being serious over here, Misha," he says. "When the Hell did you go out today?"

Misha shrugs, shaking his head and cracks one of his eggs on the table. "I was out for too long. I didn't mean to be, but," he says and flicks his eyes up to the clock on the microwave, does some quick mental math. "I was probably out for two hours? I went out at six-thirty anyway, and it's almost nine, but I've been back a while, so… That's about two hours, right?"

"That's about two hours too many, you mean?" Jensen rolls his eyes—maybe Misha doesn't look at him to see it, but the eye-rolling is audible in his voice. "Because for you? It's seriously about two hours too many. Especially since you're not a morning person. And you didn't even bother making coffee before you left?"

It shouldn't be a question—at least, Misha's pretty sure it shouldn't be a question—but the fact that Jensen makes it into one, throws in that bone-scraping upward inflection… Misha heaves a deep breath and another sigh of his own. Jensen _would_ have to go right for playing the concern card—right for asking what's up, what could possibly be so off with Misha that he wouldn't make coffee first thing in the morning—and he can't even find it in him to protest, because even from where he's sitting… yeah, his behavior's pretty off. That's not even a guess. Misha knows his behavior's off.

"I knew I was going to be out for at least an hour, Jenny. I didn't want the coffee to get overcooked or anything," he explains simply and with a shrug, keeping his eyes down on the egg he's peeling, on making sure he gets the bits of shell on the napkin instead of on the table. "And that wouldn't have been an hour too many, so please don't say that. An hour of going out for a run, first thing in the morning? It's good for me, okay."

"Yeah, I _want_ to believe that," Jensen says through another huff. "And I _want_ to believe that you didn't skip turning on your timer on purpose, but… worrisome precedents."

"I know, I know, worrisome precedents." Misha doesn't shake his head, but he very much wants to do so. Instead, he settles for taking a huge bite out of his egg—that'll show Jensen who's bogged down in worrisome precedents. "I just screwed up this morning. It's no big deal."

"So, like… when, exactly, do I get to make it a big deal? Because you've said, _oh, it's no big deal_ a few times before, and then it turned out that it _was_ a big deal…" Jensen sighs, pauses until Misha looks up at him—and meeting his eyes just gets Misha rewarded with one of the saddest expressions that he's ever seen on anyone's face, with his heart plummeting into his stomach out of guilt.

And without missing a beat, without giving Misha a chance to look away, Jensen picks back up: "I trust you, Meesh—seriously. I trust _you_. What I _don't_ trust is that evil little voice inside your head, and sometimes, I can't be sure if it's really _you_ talking to me, or if it might be that voice. Or if, like… I don't even really know. Or if maybe you're not listening to it too much to really be okay? D'you get what I'm saying?"

Misha does understand. He gets what Jensen's saying perfectly—but it's not that simple. Even if Jensen's conundrum isn't really that simple. Leaning back in his chair, Misha wriggles out of his hoodie. He drops it to the floor and nudges his t-shirt's hem up to where his stomach really starts to curve out. He pauses for a moment, looking down at the soft, pale expanse of his pudge, the place where his stomach pooches out over the elastic waistband of his sweatpants—Misha almost can't do anything, almost chokes on the resolve he felt when he started this.

But he did start it, so he has to see it through. He puts his hands on the sides of his tummy, squashing it so the rolls of fat show up more clearly, pushing them out so it's more obvious that he's not just making things up here. That he really has these extra few layers of flab around his middle. That it's by no means as cute as anyone thinks it might be, or as sexy as Jensen's belly is. It's disgusting, and Misha emphasizes that. Even jiggles his tummy around to make sure the point gets fully driven home for Jensen. Just to make sure that he doesn't forget how disgusting this is himself—because Misha can't let himself forget that, ever.

"Do you see what I'm talking about here, Jensen? Do you?" he says, all but outright begging Jensen to please, please, _please_ just vocally confirm that yes, he sees that Misha's getting chubby. Please confirm it so Misha can put his shirt back down. "I mean, you do get it, right? You see what I'm so obsessed with?"

Jensen sighs, cards his hand back through his hair. "All I see is my best friend—my dangerously intelligent, sweet, funny, loyal, protective, highly overachieving, constantly perfectionistic best friend—picking on himself because he has a little bit of tummy-pudge that most people wouldn't even notice."

His words smack into Misha and leave him completely unsure of what to do. But for starters, he puts his shirt back down—this much exposure is getting on his nerves, making him want to go hide in his room. And when Jensen, on his way out the door, makes Misha promise to take care of himself today, and to call Jensen or at least text him if he starts feeling like he's not okay, all that Misha can say to him is, "Yeah. Okay. I swear I will, Jen."

*******

He doesn't call Jensen, he doesn't text him, but on the other hand, Misha doesn't think he really needs to. Maybe he's not okay, but he's not in dire straits enough that he needs to bug his best friend while Jensen's at work. There's something else that works a lot better anyway: a long, hot shower, followed by getting on Facebook, vindictively stalking through some photo albums of the so-called "friends" he went to high school with.

It really is a case of so-called "friends." Misha didn't have any friends in high school, at least none he really trusted. He had Vicki and that was it. Sarah and Nick made his life Hell and they were better friends to him than the people Vicki hung out with—the people Misha saw less and less of during senior year because they'd only tolerated him on the grounds of him being Vicki's brother, and he didn't want to deal with it anymore. Those assholes pretended to like him while talking shit behind his sister's back, calling him the same things that his bullies did, saying that Nick and Sarah had a point in making fun of his weight.

At least Nick and Sarah were interested in _him_. They just had their reasons for acting like it couldn't ever be positive. In another reality—one where he didn't spend his childhood and high school being the class fat-ass, the perpetual outcast, the left-handed monkey-wrench—Misha could have called them friends. In another reality, he might've been just as bad as they were, or maybe they'd have been better people. The simple fact remains: they were interested in _him_ , instead of only putting up with him for appearances' sakes; they just didn't think they were allowed to like him and all things considered—all things like how _huge_ he was—Misha can't really blame them for that.

At least Sarah and Nick had the respect and basic decency to treat Misha like he was intelligent, instead of acting like he couldn't see through the fake smiles and the phony concern to get that Vicki's asshole friends thought he was too different—too big, too smart, too bookish, too fat, too much of everything—to be allowed. At least Vicki's not even Facebook friends with most of those people, after finding out what they used to do.

Still, Misha's added the assholes on Facebook because it keeps up the appearance that he's not a rancid jackass and it's just some online etiquette formality. It doesn't really _mean_ anything—besides, it affords him the ability to keep tabs on people that he kind of hates, see how they're doing and if they're getting their comeuppance for high school on any level. He always smirks like the Devil himself when he sees that some of them definitely are—like there's Kate, who used to be a cheerleader, who offered to see if Misha was really, truly, a hundred percent gay once he was all track star thin and winning first place at all his meets.

(She wound up being right, of course. He wasn't a hundred percent gay—but it's the principle of her offer that's still really gross, and Misha might've had a crush on Nick after Nick picked on him unmercifully, but he couldn't say the same about two-faced Kate.)

If not for her atrocious personality, Kate's before and after pictures could be quite striking, even attractive. As it stands, she has a pretty face in all of them—heart-shaped and delicate and unfortunately, almost perfectly suited to the weight she gained in college and the way it made her cheeks puff up, her chin start sagging with extra pudge. Through the progression of photos, she blubbers out slowly—first getting a little beer belly and a muffin top, a bit thicker in the hips and thighs—but once she gets that little bit of pudge, the weight comes on faster. By her junior year of undergrad, she's put on a good sixty, maybe seventy pounds.

There are a few comments on the pictures of her as she gets to her highest weight. Snide, self-abasing shit about getting on a diet or going to the gym—but these things never pan out for her. Just last week, she uploaded pictures from her sister's wedding and in them, she's all but spilling, ripping out of her bridesmaid's dress. At some point, it probably fit her perfectly but now, the fabric strains around the round, supple-looking expanse of her chubby middle, the full curves of her hips. Her breasts threaten to escape from their low-cut cage and the hollow of her bellybutton shows through her dress. So much for a cheerleader who topped off the pyramid, once.

But Kate, unfortunately for Misha's vindictive streak, never seems all that distraught. In fact, she's gotten bigger still, in the wedding pictures, from the last set that she uploaded. In these pictures, she's all smiles, with her chunky chin and high tension wire seams. She beams at her sister and new brother-in-law, dances without concern for how her dress could tear, completely fails to care when a camera gets her at an angle that makes her face look bigger, rounder, fatter. And that makes him hate her more than anything she ever did in high school. It makes his entire face flush hot, and sick, and scarlet from how much he hates her, how much he hates that, after everything she's done, she's allowed to feel comfortable in her own skin.

With his neck burning up, with his stomach boiling in shame and guilt, Misha clicks to close the tab that has Kate's pictures in it—a throat-coating of envy isn't what he wants or needs right now. He clicks to the pictures that belong to one, Mike Baldwin, a member of Gary Syznowski's posse, who wasn't one of Vicki's friends but one of Misha's fellow members of the track team, a long-distance runner with a huge appetite for pizzas and pastas. One that, apparently, he kept when he skulked off to college and dropped all his sport teams and athletics in favor of his studies. How perfectly commendable—and how perfect for Misha on the one count that really matters.

Flicking through Mike's photo albums is better than any kink site that Misha's ever lookout at—not the best in terms of photo quality, granted, but in therms of just how quickly Mike put on weight, how much he put on, how much bigger he went and got. He found a good-sized swell of paunch around his middle pretty quickly. By Christmas of their freshman year, his pictures have him exclusively wearing sweats and too-snug t-shirts, ones that he doesn't get rid of even when he gets clothes that fit. The situation never gets any better for Mike, either, but it gets better for Misha. Mike's belly just gets bigger, rounder, until it finally starts to sag instead of sticking out over his belt.

And he keeps smiling. Just keeps right on grinning, as he gets even bigger, fatter than Misha ever was. More recently, Mike's got to weigh a good three-seventy, three-seventy-five, if he's not clocking in at more than that. His chin's at least quadrupled, his whole body's overflowed with flab—Misha can't look at the picture, but he can't look away, either—he's sick to his stomach, but at the same time, his free hand wanders down. He palms against his crotch and can't fight it—doesn't even bother trying—as his cock gets hard.

Most of the other albums that Misha stalks through don't have examples as extreme as Mike's or Kate's—they've got little tummies here and there, a few quick bouts with the Freshman Fifteen or maybe ( _maybe_ ) Thirty—but they see Misha through the process well enough. He gets the lotion on his fingers and his palm. He works himself over in long, slow strokes, going through all the photos of Facebook friends who got fat and wondering how it might feel to sink his fingers into their different bodies. Whose bellies would be firm, who would be all soft and supple, whose thighs would feel the softest, warmest when they're wrapped around his hips…

Eventually, he flicks to pictures of how Matt's looking these days—not Matt from here, but Matt from camp. Because Misha could go looking at pictures of Matt, except for how he has a girlfriend. And he could look at his pictures of Jensen on Thanksgiving—he could sort through them and send them to Jared already—but it's bad enough that Misha's rubbed up on Jensen while he's someone else's boyfriend. Coveting and lusting after him while jerking off? Unfair to Jared. So terribly unfair. Almost enough to kill Misha's hard-on, make him go limp before he can get off.

He does get off, though, and he gets off fine. He hits his limit hard and fast and pumping on his shaft—and he hits it on a picture of Matt and Simon at some amusement park called Cedar Point. These days, no one would guess that Matt had ever been to fat camp, if mostly because he's gotten pretty chubby all over again. He might not be fat, as such, but he's definitely got a belly going for him. Not as much as he used to have—not as much as he could have—but it's there and it presses out against his t-shirt, and it looks so round, so soft, and Misha just wants to sink his fingers into it…

Misha comes on a picture that reminds him: Matt is somebody else's boyfriend, too.

Misha might've been out already today, but he goes for another run soon after that, soon after cleaning up his mess. He comes back in after an hour-and-a-half of doing his rounds in the park and doesn't so much as look at his laptop for several hours. Long enough to watch a whole disc of Star Trek episodes—and his throat cakes up, chokes him with guilt when he goes back in and sees that Matt's emailed him back.

Because Misha's such a hypocrite. Or if not that, then he's still some kind of gross. The kind of gross who jerks off to pictures of other people's boyfriends. Not only that, but he also loves fat so much on others while he hates it on himself—and Mark says there's a reason for that, but his reason is fucking wrong. Misha's not sick—he can't have an eating disorder because that's _stupid_ , because he _says_ that he can't have one—so how does he mean to reconcile these things?

He has no goddamned idea. All he knows is that he can't be sure of anything—except for the part where TV is so much preferable to work right now.

*******

TV isn't preferable, however, to getting a call from Matt—at least, Misha thinks so until he's flopped back on the sofa, getting subjected to a lecture about how he didn't need to go out for _two_ runs, Matt doesn't care if Misha's put on fifty or sixty fucking pounds in the past however long Misha's been letting himself obsess about this.

"Jesus God, Matt, don't even _joke_ like that…" Misha cards his fingers through his hair and casts a glance over at _The Trouble With Tribbles_ playing on the TV. "Seriously—my weight problem's bad enough as it is. Don't joke about me getting that big all over again. That shit's not funny."

"Who said I'm trying to be funny?" Matt says, and it sounds like he's trying to imply something. Probably something to the tune of, _there is absolutely nothing funny about this situation, you self-destructive fuck-head_. "I'm serious about this. I don't care what you weigh, or how much you want to weigh, or anything about any of that. There's no reason why you needed three-and-a-half hours of running today. What would you have done if you'd gotten hurt or something?"

"Probably cried like a baby and called Jensen or Vicki to come fix it for me. That's pretty much my MO for handling problems anymore. Well… that, and whining to you and Mark about my problems. And vegetating to copious amounts of Star Trek." _And counting calories, working out for what apparently constitutes, 'too long,' and fighting the urge to shove my fingers down my throat, but really now, who's counting?_

"And nothing else?" Because Jesus Christ, Matt just has to go and read the fuck out of Misha's mind.

"Well… I wouldn't say _nothing_ else. It's just more that I'm, like. Trying to avoid the other options because I know they're not a good idea on any level." Misha sighs. Wriggles around and tries to burrow into the sofa, to no avail whatsoever, aside from making himself feel ever so slightly warmer. "But it doesn't change the problem at the heart of everything. Which is that I'm getting _chubby_ , and it feels _weird_ , and I look _gross_ , and I don't _like it_."

"The only way you could look gross is if you rolled around in mud and trash for a few hours."

"Yeah, says you. You haven't seen me since June. I've got a little tummy and I've lost my thigh-gap and everything about me is all jiggly—"

"And maybe that's just where your weight's going to even out, if you eat healthily and exercise _reasonably_ —you know, to a degree that doesn't involve beating yourself into going on a two-hour run, then tossing on an hour-and-a-half more later." Matt says this in a tone like the one Jensen used over breakfast—like he's barely two steps off from begging. "Have you ever tried just… finding a weight that doesn't involve you emotionally beating the shit out of yourself and getting comfortable at it? Or are you always stuck wanting something else?"

"The only thing I ever _want_ with this is to be _skinny_ , which is hard to do when everyone… whatever. It doesn't matter."

"You mean, 'when everyone tries to remind me that being _skinny_ isn't inherently _healthy_?"

"So, wait a minute," Misha says through a huff. "Why'd you even call me in the first place?"

Matt's shrug is audible as he says, "Because you usually email me back within half-an-hour when you're having some kind of body image issue like today. You didn't, and I just didn't want you to not be okay. …You _are_ okay, right?"

 _Do I fucking **sound** okay, Matt?_ Misha half-groans, rubbing hard at the bridge of his nose. "Well, that's kind of a longterm, work-in-progress," he says. "But I've been a whole Hell of a lot worse, so… I'm gonna say that I'm okay, yeah."

And if that's a lie, then Misha's going to beat it until it's true. As much as he can under the circumstances, anyway.


	24. Rubs Me Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen makes some discoveries and Misha makes some confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used: "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity" for ~hc_bingo and, "beginning" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

When Jensen gets home from work, Misha's half-passed out on the sofa, staring at _The Trouble With Tribbles_ and barely reacting to anything—the only way Jensen manages to get a seat is by nudging Misha around a little bit and letting him rest his head in Jensen's lap. He probably shouldn't do this—maybe? He could stand to avoid it just a little bit? He supposes—just because it might encourage Misha's crush, which isn't even remotely fair of Jensen to do—but on the other hand, if Misha doesn't know that Jensen knows, it could make things weird between them—Jensen would be suddenly developing an Issue with something that they've always done. It would look really weird. Misha might get suspicious.

Worse than that, though? Misha might get _hurt_ —and then it would be Jensen's fault for hurting him.

So, in the end, it's really easier to let Misha lie there on his side, resting his head on Jensen's thigh, occasionally nudging back into Jensen's belly—which isn't any fault of Misha's, really, because Jensen's belly is getting more than a little ridiculous. Not quite comically large, not even close, but if there's one talent that Misha has, it's feeding people—complete with the attendant talent of making them put on weight. At two-seventy-three, Jensen doesn't feel big so much as enormous, all because it's so new. He's put on the fifty pounds he wanted in what feels like barely any time at all, and truth told, it's not all a bunch of rainbows and glitter. Some parts of it actually kind of suck—not that Jensen would trade any part of this for anything else, though.

On the one hand, Jensen loves the heaviness of his belly, the way it holds him down on the sofa, the way he has to spread his legs anymore, just to comfortably accommodate the beast. On the other, though, he can't do much without his back aching in protest, and from the wrong angles, his stomach tries to make him topple over. On the one hand, he loves all the new places in which he jiggles—he loves the new dimples of cellulite on his pudgy thighs, and how his ass fills out all his jeans, even the new ones that Danneel picked up for him at the Black Friday sales, and he really loves how much more he can eat, these days.

But on the other hand, he guesses that he needs some kind of adjustment period or something—the way that Misha's advocated for and that Jensen's only argued against—because putting on so much weight, so quickly? It's getting just a little uncomfortable.

After a while of just quietly watching the episode together, Misha sighs, rolls around and sits up. He folds his arms over his chest to do so, as if proving something to himself by doing a standard issue gym sit up instead of anything else—Jensen just tries not to roll his eyes at how utterly ridiculous Misha can get about this issue. At least, he doesn't have anything self-abasing to say as he clambers up off the couch. All he says is, "You're getting pizza for dinner tonight. My treat. My card's in my wallet, which is in my backpack. I'm getting a shower, so… just order whatever you want, okay?"

"And a side-salad for you, or do you want something a little more substantial?" Jensen snarks, and immediately backtracks: "Shit, fuck, I—shit. I'm sorry, that sounded wrong, it just slipped out, I didn't mean… well, I kind of did, but I didn't mean it as cruel and jerky as it came out?"

"It's okay, Jenny, I promise." Misha sighs, combing his hand back through his hair. "You're getting tired of being worried all the time and you were actually trying to ask something considerate—I totally get it, there's nothing for you to apologize for, okay?" Hugging himself around the middle, slouching at the hips, he takes a moment to think things over, then says, "Get me a Caesar with grilled chicken, spinach, and extra tomatoes? And see if they'll put cucumbers and their grilled red peppers on it?"

Jensen bites it back, but on the inside, he's sighing in relief. Sure, it's still a salad, but at least it's a salad with _substance_. It's a salad that has _stuff_ on it—and stuff with calories and nutritional value, at that—instead of just being a half-size bowl of wilted lettuce and maybe some spinach, if everyone who cares about Misha happens to get very, very lucky. Once Jensen's agreed, Misha informs him that he's the best and skulks off toward his own room, and as he's headed into the bathroom, he pauses to stretch out. Doesn't give Jensen much to stare at, though.

On the one hand, this is the fault of his t-shirt—it's one that Jensen's since outgrown, and Misha's positively swimming in it, which is probably the point. On the other hand, though, it's that, for some reason, Misha's little tummy seems so much smaller than it did on Thanksgiving. It really, honestly can't be that much smaller—it hasn't even been a full week yet, and it's probably the side-effect of him wearing a too-big t-shirt and pajama pants that fit him properly instead of slicing into his flesh—but the fact is still that Misha's losing weight, just the way he wants. And he'll probably get back to looking like a strong breeze could knock him over by the time they're back from Christmas break. And he might get even worse than that, if he doesn't put in to take next semester off, because the eating disorder that he "doesn't have" will be back in full swing, and there probably won't be anything that Jensen can do about it.

And unfortunately for both of them, Jensen must be staring a bit too much. He's soon met with Misha blinking back at him, asking if he can help Jensen with something?

"Uhm," Jensen starts, heaves a sigh, feels like he has the worst case of Novocaine-tongue known to man—like his whole mouth's gone thick and slack and he couldn't make words if he tried. But somehow, he manages to spit out, "Can I borrow your laptop for a sec? To check my email after I put in the pizza order?"

Misha tilts his head at Jensen for a moment, takes a deep breath, and huffs, and thinks this over, and for a moment, Jensen thinks that it might be all over—that Misha's going to catch wise and know that Jensen's lying. But all Misha does is shrug, and nod, and guess that it's all right with him.

"Just don't dick around and send anyone stuff from my account, okay?" he says and slams the bathroom door behind him.

*******

Jensen doesn't mean to read Misha's email—but then again, on some level? He very much does mean to read it.

It's still pretty accidental, in its own way. At least, it's accidental that Jensen sees the message sitting in Misha's inbox, the one from some guy named Matt Bomer, and it's accidental that his eyes fall on the first lines that Gmail displays for him… Clicking on the message definitely _isn't_ accidental. Jensen sees the words, _I wish you could just accept your weight and accept yourself_ , and he knows that this message is something he's invested in. Something that he wants to read. He doesn't _need_ to read it. Jensen certainly won't die from not reading the thing—but Jensen still burns to click the message.

As soon as it opens, he expands everything within it. He reads the conversation from the beginning, paying special attention to all of Misha's sections.

"Matt," he writes in one email, "I don't even know what's going on for me anymore. I mean, I know how I got so chubby this time—I've slipped up and let myself have some of Jensen's milkshakes before. I let myself eat food that I made up special for him when I shouldn't have, just given all the butter and everything else in the stuff. I let him talk me into letting myself go a little bit, or kind of a lot, considering I got way, way too close to two-hundred pounds for my liking. I mean, gross, right? I've made a total pig of myself and it's disgusting, I just want it to stop, you know?"

"What's so wrong on top of this?" he writes in another, "Is that I haven't gone to the gym enough to compensate for all the crap that I've eaten, and it's kicking me right in my expanding fat ass, just like I deserve for breaking my diet so much and so terribly. In a way, it's even better that I got just over one-ninety because I needed some kind of fucking wake-up call. But now the weight isn't coming off quickly enough, and I'm going to die when I go home for break, and it's all driving me up the fucking wall. Because I just want to stop eating and I know I can't because that would kill me."

"Yes, Matt, two-hundred pounds **is** a bad thing for me. It's a very bad thing, actually. But **for me** ," Misha writes in yet another message. "It's not anything that I'm saying about you or anybody else weighing two-forty or two-fifty-whatever, and I don't care that you ever weighed close to three-hundred. I would've thought that, of all people, you would know that I don't care about what you ever weighed. Every time I ever told you that you were beautiful at camp, I meant it, and whatever I feel about myself and my own body doesn't change that, okay? It doesn't change that ever. There's a really important distinction to be considered here."

"All I'm saying," Misha says in the one directly after that, "is that there's a difference between how I feel about other people's bodies and how I feel about my own, okay? Maybe I could've phrased it better, and I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry that it hit a nerve for you. I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry that I made you feel like your weight was gross or wrong or anything because it's not. Like I said, I think you're beautiful. I think you're sexy. Like, Jensen's pushing two-seventy right now and he's always been hot, but I've never had a harder time keeping it in my pants around him."

"Fat is hot, Matt," he writes in his next message. "Fat is beautiful. Fat is lovely and amazing and wonderful and fucking hot, Matt—but only as long as it's on other people. Only as long as it's not on me. Because it's not what I choose for myself. And it's not what I want for myself. And it's not what I like for myself or what I've _ever_ liked for myself. I don't like it at all. I've tasted both kinds of life and I can say from experience that I like being skinny better than I like being fat. So sue me, I really, really don't like my body when it has any kind of pudge on it. I just don't. Call it some kind of personal preference—is that really so fucking wrong?"

Jensen has to stop reading for a moment there, and he goes to get the wallet out of Misha's backpack instead of letting himself keep eyeing the screen, rereading the completely ridiculous shit that Misha thinks he's on about. The pizza won't be here for a while yet, but it's always a good idea to be prepared—and aside from that, Jensen really, _really_ can't handle whatever Misha thinks he's talking about without a break. It's just that patently fucking ludicrous. While he's over by Misha's backpack, he grabs a photo album from inside it—he's never known Misha to be a shutterbug, but knowing him, he's probably captured some good shots. Some cute pictures might be a good break from all of Misha's stupid, self-abasing bullshit. They might be just the palate-cleanser that Jensen needs.

Seriously, though. Where the Hell does he even get off with this bullshit like he's ever been fat? He's been chubby, sure, just a little bit softer around the edges—back in sophomore year, when he busted up his leg and proceeded to beat himself up like a punching bag—but Misha's absolutely never been fat. …Not that a distaste for his self-abuse stops Jensen from sitting back down, picking back up in reading Misha's emails to this Matt guy, whoever he is.

"Why do I have to justify the way I feel about my own body to so many people?" Misha writes in the next message, one of the more recent ones. "Why do I have to explain how I feel about my weight and justify the fact that I like to be thin? I can kind of understand it from Jensen and Mark, since they don't know how big I was, but you and Vicki? Come the fuck on, Matt. You two saw me when I looked like a beached baby whale. You two saw me when I was some fat-ass, three-hundred-and-fifty-pound thirteen-year-old kid and you, of all people, _know_ how hard I had to work to get my weight down to somewhere healthier and more acceptable. There's photo evidence of how hard I had to work, too. If I thought that thinspiration and reverse thinspo were any kind of healthy, I'd just need to use pictures of myself."

And in the response right after that: "Did you know that the first time I blew you, it was the first time I was under two-hundred pounds since I'd been, like, nine or ten? It's not like I'm saying that I prefer being skinny based on putting on ten pounds and calling myself fat, Matt. I'm saying it based on actually having been pretty fucking fat, and knowing that I hated it, and knowing that I would do just about anything to keep from having to go back to being that big ever again. And any kind of slip up is something that could make me go back there, if I let it go unchecked. If I don't try to fight back against it while it's still early. While it's still not really that bad. I think I'd do anything to keep from going that way again."

And in the next one: "I've been carrying around my album of fat Misha pictures, and I don't know why. I think it's because I'm considering finally going and putting one of them on Facebook—just owning the fact that I used to be huge and putting it out there that I used to look like Free Willy's lost little brother and just letting everybody who didn't know draw their own fucking conclusions. But sometimes, I think it's because I really am using pictures of myself as motivation to just get skinny and stay that way for good instead of fucking up and letting myself get fat and disgusting all over again."

Jensen pauses in reading again, but this time, it's so he can glance down at the photo album, at its faux-leather, navy blue cover. Now that he thinks about it? The oldest picture on Misha's Facebook is his senior picture—there's nothing from before then, not even some embarrassing middle school picture. Jensen trembles just from looking at the book, and he thinks that maybe—just maybe—he shouldn't bother with what he's thinking. That he should just leave the thing alone, leave well enough alone, leave it all alone because he's gone and invaded Misha's privacy more than enough for one night—but he can't just let this go. Not when the photo album might have what he thinks it has in it. Jensen's breath comes out in a shudder as he drags his fingers along the cover, as he brushes them down the hard, stitched pattern. Maybe he shouldn't do this. Maybe he needs to, but maybe he shouldn't?

He has to fling the book open just to get past how much he's reconsidering, and once he does, Jensen finds himself staring down into pictures of a kid he barely recognizes. If not for the eyes, he wouldn't know that it's Misha. They're unmistakeable, his eyes—all big and blue and gleaming with mischief, even when he looks so sullen that he could bring a whole room's mood crashing down around him—but everything else about him looks so different. At his biggest, in a Polaroid that has his name and his weight scrawled at the bottom— _Misha, 351_ —Misha looks wider than he is tall, even though Jensen knows that's probably not the case. His cheekbones are still prominent, just cushioned by a thick layer of fat, just like the multiple chins sitting underneath his face. His belly and hips strain against his t-shirt, his shorts and their elastic waistband… Jensen can guess what kind of shit Misha must have heard at school, and he wants nothing more than to go back in time and be there for him when he so obviously needed someone other than just Vicki.

Misha gets taller and thinner as the pictures go on—a few of them answer the question of how, and it comes down to some place called Camp Prospect, which Jensen can only assume is a fat camp—but when Jensen slides some of them out of their protective casing, he sees things written on the backs of the different snapshots. Things like, _**fat-ass**_ , and _**enjoy that birthday cake, tubby, it'll just make the problem worse for you**_ , and _**NEVER AGAIN**_ —things that make Jensen's breath catch in his throat and make his eyes sting like they're going to water up. Not least because they're all scrawled in a chicken-scratch that's unmistakeable as Misha's. He barely notices the bathroom door opening. If not for Misha humming, "Can't Buy Me Love," Jensen wouldn't notice him coming out toward the common room—he might not manage to pry himself from the book if not for Misha asking what's going on—and at that, all Jensen has it in him to do is hold up the latest picture he's looking at.

It's a snapshot of Misha and Vicki at one of their birthday parties, hugging each other around the shoulders—and for all Misha's noticeably thinner than some of the other pictures, he's still pretty chubby. On the back of the picture, Misha's scribbled, _**smile all you fucking want, you're still the ugly fat twin, Piglet. oink oink, fatty**_ —and right here, right now, all the color drains out of Misha's face. He stands there in front of Jensen in his boxers and a t-shirt that hugs his little tummy but not too closely, and his jaw drops open like a fish out of water. He shakes his head and, a few times, tries to say something but can't make the words come out—he looks from the picture to Jensen to the picture to Jensen, and finally, Jensen can't take it anymore. Can't take the silence or the utter lack of doing things.

He drops the photograph and pries himself up off the floor. He crosses the distance between them in two long strides. He grabs Misha up, hugging him around the shoulders—and he almost faints from shock when Misha hugs him back, curls tightly into his front, drops his head onto Jensen's shoulder, and half-whimpers, "I was going to tell you about it all, Jen, I swear I was… I just didn't know how to bring it up. Or how to say it. Or anything."

"It's okay, Meesh," Jensen says into Misha's hair. "There's nothing for you to apologize for. I get it. I get why you didn't just tell me about it. It's gonna be okay."

*******

They don't say anything else until dinner's come, until they're set up on the sofa, watching _Journey to Babel_ while Jensen vacuums up several slices of pizza and Misha picks at his salad and sips at his tea. At that, the first words they trade are just Jensen reminding Misha that picking at his dinner doesn't count as eating it, and Misha telling Jensen that he's working on it, but his appetite's gone kind of wonky so, please… just give him time, okay—and all things considered, Jensen can't begrudge him the ability to eat slowly, if he needs to. They're probably just lucky that Misha's eating anything at all, regardless of the speed at which he does so.

It's not until halfway through the episode that Misha sighs, says again that he really was going to tell Jensen about his past, at some point. "I just… College was a clean slate for me, you know?" he says, spearing a piece of the grilled chicken and a slice of tomato. "I got away from all the assholes who made my life Hell from the time I started putting on weight until… well. All the way through losing it, since the girl who came for me the worst just started a bunch of jacked up rumors about how I had a drug problem, or cancer, or AIDS and that's how I got so thin, so quickly…"

"Yeah," Jensen says with a huff. "Because four summers busting your ass at fat camp totally sounds like it was ever any kind of fucking fast, or easy, or anything like that."

"I know right?" Shaking his head, Misha finally eats the chicken and the tomato-slice, follows them up with some of the spinach and a few of the peppers. "The sick thing is that I actually wound up making peace with ringleader Sarah after all the shit she pulled. Not like we're friends or anything, but… That summer before junior year? We were both home from school, and we had a chance to talk things out, by which I really mean that we snapped at each other a lot, and it turned out that we weren't really all that different?"

"You and I are of a kind," Jensen quotes, even though they're watching entirely the wrong episode for it. "In another reality, I could've called you, 'friend'?"

"That's pretty much exactly what our relationship is like, yeah. Besides, at least she openly mistreated me, not like all of my so-called friends who just… tolerated me for Vicki's sake, didn't bother getting to really know me, and said all the same shit about me that Sarah did, but less creatively, then acted like I owed it to them to put up with it because they kept me around."

Jensen's still trying to process everything that's gone on tonight, everything he's learned about what Misha's life before they met was like—but he knows one thing for certain. Namely: he should seriously never be allowed to meet anyone who knew Misha in high school, or else it's too likely that he will punch all of them in their fucking mouths.

"I just really, really liked getting to be some guy who didn't have all that history behind him, you know?" Misha says with a heavy sigh, and prods at his lettuce without getting all of it on the fork. "I mean, the only person here who knew what I'd been through was Vicki, and she understands discretion and what things aren't her story to tell, so it's not like I was in danger of her saying anything… She kept my secrets for me and I got to be somebody else. Somebody new. Somebody who was basically just the me I never got to be in high school because I repressed everything just so I'd avoid attracting more attention and putting up with more abuse."

"Except that you're still the same guy, and you can't unmake the past just by pretending that it didn't happen?"

"Basically, yeah." Misha shrugs, goes quiet for a while, just eating his salad in little bites. "I just didn't _want_ to still be the same guy. He had to put up with all kinds of shit that I didn't want in my life anymore."

"Understandably," Jensen supposes. He sighs, sets his plate down on the coffee-table not because he's full or done with his pizza, but because this feels like a hug moment. He drapes his arm around Misha's shoulders, tugging him closer, and Misha huffs as he leans into Jensen's side. "But… so that's all why you're, like…"

Even though Jensen doesn't finish that thought, Misha nods. "Yeah," he says. "That's why I have such a fucked up relationship with food. It's all—it's just… because I don't want to be like that again."

"So, wait, is helping me with my shit… Does. Does that make things worse for you?" He thinks about Misha's emails that he maybe shouldn't have read, thinks about everything that he told Matt about how he 'let himself slip up' and all that other shit. "Do you need to stop with me?"

Misha just shakes his head. "You're going into an adjustment period, anyway," he says. "Besides, I've played feeder to other people without it being what Mark would call 'triggering' and what I call, 'just sort of generally squiffy.' If that changes—I mean, if I ever need to stop—I'll let you know, but… you didn't force me into this or anything like that, Jen. And it's not really hurting me as much as Mark thinks it should. Or at all. I'm fine. I swear, I'm fine."


	25. Straight Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen and Jared argue, Mark and Misha discuss, and everything goes to Hell in a hand-basket made of angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used here are: "hostile climate," "time travel gone wrong," "WILD CARD (abandonment issues)," "unwanted transformation," and "counseling" as a single-line extra for ~hc_bingo and, "evidence" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

Jensen doesn't manage to corner Jared on Skype until right after finals, and by the time he's looking down at his boy, Jensen must be seriously wiped out. He can't take his eyes off of Jared, which wouldn't be any kind of odd, except for how it seriously looks like Jared's cheeks have puffed out. Except for how there's a shadow underneath of Jared's chin and his entire face looks softer, like maybe he's gone and gained some weight himself. He sits at such an angle that Jensen can't get any kind of view of his body—not to mention, he's wearing an enormous hoodie—but there are more than enough hints in his face. It seriously looks like Jared might've put on weight—except that's freaking impossible, because Jared can almost never keep weight on.

Not that Jensen can really judge Jared, if he has gained weight. Almost four weeks on from Thanksgiving and for all Jensen's supposed to be in an adjustment period, he's still put on another three-and-a-half pounds. He guesses it's to be expected, with the way he eats, but Jensen can't help shuffling around in his desk chair, wondering how much of him Jared can see, whether or not Jared can tell how much weight he's put on—Jensen's clawed his way up to two-seventy-six-and-a-half without any apparent trouble at all and it's showing more than clearly. Everyone else has seen it up close and personal; everyone else knows how much bigger Jensen's gotten—and having to keep that from Jared makes his heart sink in his chest, makes his stomach try to knot itself up around all the milkshake he sucked down earlier, but the whole idea with doing this was to shock Jay when he gets back from England.

Besides, it's not like Jared's being perfectly forthcoming about whatever it is he's up to, either. He dodges most of the questions about how he's doing and how his finals were—and when Jensen tries to ask about the six-week internship that Jared's just gone and gotten himself, Jared just ham-handedly says that it's no big deal, that he wasn't ever going to come back to the States during the work period he signed up for anyway—he's only coming back tomorrow because Christmas is coming up—so there's really no reason to get upset about anything. He's not delaying his return, and he's letting Jensen know about it, so what's the trouble?

"There's no _trouble_ ," Jensen says through a sigh. "I'm just… annoyed, I guess, is all. I just thought I'd get to see you sooner than that, y'know?"

"Yeah, no, I get it," Jared says almost mechanically, sounding more reflexive than anything else. "I miss you, too, and I was gonna take some kind of work period back home, so I could do classes too, but nothing turned up until March and then I got the chance to do something out here—"

"Yeah, I just hope whoever's got you on their team doesn't just make you scrub out the beakers and the petri dishes. If they don't properly appreciate that big, sexy brain of yours, I _will_ come across the Pond and ice their teeth in." Jensen's not sure how much he really means that, but at the very least, it makes Jared smile.

The only problem is, it's a kind of forced smile. Blatantly so. His dimples dig and strain into his cheeks—which are very _definitely_ fuller, rounder, softer-looking, if Jensen's not hallucinating, which he probably is, knowing him—and he only gives Jensen a flash of his huge, white teeth before his face dies down, flops back into looking all worn out and pale and fuzzy around the edges, like an out-of-focus picture but not thanks to his webcam being all fucked up. Which Jensen doesn't begrudge him any—Jared's just survived finals zoo and all that. He hasn't had to mark up any papers or hand out grades or supervise a final review for a bunch of tweaking, sleepless freshmen—but finals still suck, regardless of which role anyone takes.

Maybe that's why Jensen's imagining that Jared looks a little puffy. Not fat. Not even chubby or pudgy, but just puffy enough to notice that he's put on a little weight. Maybe Jensen's just convincing himself that there's more of Jared to love preemptively, in some kind of strike back against reality—because his own thick waist is closing in on fifty inches around, and he's softer everywhere himself, and it just might be nice for Jared to go and get a little softer, too. Either way, Jensen startles when Jared snaps his name, blushes when he has to ask Jay to repeat whatever the Hell he's just said. (It was probably something important, too, which just makes Jensen's stomach churn.)

Flushing hot and pink, Jensen ducks his chin, feels his heart skip a beat and flutter around as it sinks into a thick pocket of fat—thicker than he's entirely accustomed to having attached to him—and he stutters as he admits that he wasn't fully listening. This? This embarrassment? This is what he gets for zoning out to thoughts of his boyfriend maybe having a bigger ass. This is what he gets for thinking about sinking his fingers into rolls of fat along Jared's waist and hips, rubbing up on some new, soft belly.

Jared sighs from the pit of his chest and shrugs. "All I said was, 'Are you trying to tell me I _should_ be nervous about that?'" Before he can stop himself, Jensen splutters, _about what?_ , and gets rewarded with Jared rolling his eyes, tilting his head _just so_ , giving the illusion of a double-chin. "About getting turned into some bitch-work boy or glorified helper-monkey at my internship instead of getting taken seriously?"

"Well, I don't know how it works for science-y internships, Jay," Jensen admits, shrugging himself now, trying to come off as concerned, but aloof enough that it doesn't seem like he's meddling. "But that's always a risk with other kinds of internships. Before I met you, I spent a whole summer getting coffee for a bunch of assholes at Marvel who treated me like shit—and none of them had the connections to utilize, either. And I just think it'd suck if you wasted six weeks doing shit like that—cleaning up after people who didn't respect you as a future scientist in your own right."

"The way I heard from different people who've done stuff for this professor before? It's not so much that I'll end up being his office-cleaning, beaker-scrubbing monkey-boy," Jared says, combing a hand back through his hair. "It's more like I'm actually going to run experiments with some of his grad students, or supervise them, and I'll be taking down all kinds of facts and figures and notes that the Prof's going to use in his study—it's still my boss's job to really interpret everything, but I'm going to be doing important work, y'know?"

"And I'm not trying to say that you're not, I'm just…" Jensen groans. Words, unfortunately, have not been and probably won't ever be as easy for him as drawing something. Why can't he just sketch out his feelings, his desire to scream _I love you and I worry_ , and have that be that? Have Jared just understand what he's saying? "All that's happened here is that we're not really understanding each other—"

"I think I'm understanding you just fine, Sexy. You're upset that I can't come see you for Christmas. You're upset that I took my work-period abroad, too. You'd rather have me getting back home already."

"No, I'm not—I mean, no, that isn't how it's—I mean, yes, okay? Yes. I want you to get home already. I love you, and I miss you, and am I supposed to apologize for that? Because you're being really confrontational about it—"

"Confrontational? Jenny, please. I'm not even being a little bit _confrontational_ with you." Jared huffs, blows a stubborn clump of hair up out of his eyes, only for it to flop back into place. He slouches onto his desk, making himself look slightly chunky—and very, _very_ distracting—all over again. "If you want me to get confrontational, though, I can. I mean, I could totally get confrontational about why the Hell are _you_ going home right now? I mean, I get it, it's Christmas, but why do you keep going back to your Mom when she treats you like she does, huh? Why?"

Jensen startles like he's been bitten, smacked. He blinks down at Jared in the Skype box. Starts trying to say something but his voice gets stuck—his voice catches in his throat and latches onto its insides—his breath gets trapped. "I… you…" he manages to spit up. "You wanna maybe run that by me _again_ , Jay?"

He's not certain what he expects, but he still swallows thickly, swallows a lump of protests and objections—because all Jared does at Jensen is shrug again, wearing a look like _what do you expect me to say_.

"All I said was, 'why do you keep going back to your mom?'" Jared says as though repeating himself somehow makes the words come together better. "She's always on your ass about how much it weighs and how fat it is. Since I've been gone, your ass has only been getting fatter—and don't even try to give me that old 'it's just a few pounds' thing because all I've got's a webcam picture and it's still pretty clearly _not_ just a few pounds. That's written all over your face, Jen."

"I wasn't _gonna_ go that way about it. I don't get why the fuck I should," Jensen snaps more than he intends to, but then again? Maybe he _does_ mean it. Maybe he does mean to snap. Getting Jared to pale and startle and look all taken aback… It feels kind of _good_. It makes Jensen's chest flush warm and pink in the same waving way that a good stuffing session does. "Yeah, I've gotten fatter—I _know_ I've gotten fatter. I've definitely gotten fatter since the last time Mom and I saw each other. I've been doing it on purpose because I _love_ the way it feels—and I'm secure enough in that to go home and see my fucking Mom for fucking _Christmas_."

Jensen huffs and slouches back in his desk chair, tugs the hem of his t-shirt down over his belly, and says, "She's kinda getting curious about you, by the way. Wants to meet my boyfriend of _almost_ three years."

"Well, I'll be fine with meeting her at some point, but not until she stops getting on your case and acting like you're worth any less because you're fucking _fat_."

"That's not how she acts!" Jensen catches a glimpse of his image in the Skype box. Splayed back with his belly jutting out ahead of him, he's blushing like a plum—like a fat-ass little plum. "If you want to see a mother who _really_ acts like that, then what about Misha's mom? My mom doesn't buy that this is healthy—because it's kind of _not_? Because there are healthier ways to do it and I've tried to stick to them but I haven't really tried that hard—I haven't really succeeded and all my Mom's worried about is my _health_ —"

"Okay, fine, but what does Misha's mom have to do with anything?"

"Well, you saw the way she acted at graduation, didn't you? Acting like he looked so good while he was falling over, and making faces at Genevieve just for eating? She's been even worse than that before, too."

"Ohhh, I think I… wait," Jared says, and his face falls. He gapes, fish-mouthed, furrowing his brow and blinking up at Jensen. "Wait a minute, Jenny. You're telling me that it's possible for her behavior to be _worse_? Like… you're not just jerking me around about that so you can make a point and win the argument, right, because that wouldn't be very cool of you."

Jensen's turn to blink down at Jared. To stumble all over his attempts at saying something, anything, until he can finally spit out, " _No_?"

Heaving a sigh, Jensen cards his hand back through his hair—which he needs to get cut before he leaves on Saturday, maybe Danneel can handle that before their flight. He slouches forward again and, for a moment, lets himself smirk at the way that this spills his belly out further into his lap. "Why would I be kidding you about her being worse than that before, Jay? She's been _so_ much worse—like, when he put on a little weight in sophomore year? He'd broken his leg and he just got a little chubby, and she went off at him about how fat he looked this, and how he was going on a diet for the summer that, and… why would I be kidding you about something like that?"

Jared shrugs and sighs himself. "See, that fucked up kinda shit is why I thought she was, like, his whack-job great-aunt or something," he says. "Like I said before, that's not how a mother's supposed to deal with her kids."

"Yeah, well, going way the Hell over-the-top runs in the family with her and Meesh—and that's not how _my_ Mom talks to me, okay? She never has, either."

"Well, that's a plus, but I still don't like some of the things she says to you. Or the way she talks to you. Or the way she makes you feel."

Jensen sighs, and can't deny the part where, sometimes, his Momma's made him feel like a crap two inches tall with how she talks about his weight. With how she talks about fat people—then eyes him as she says, _oh, but obviously, you're the exception to the rule, Pumpkin_. He got Danneel to come around, though, so maybe Momma will, as well—for a long moment, though, all he has it in him to do is stare down at Jared, wishing that he were here instead of Oxford, wishing in a way that he'd never left in the first place. It's a great opportunity for him and Jensen won't deny that—but Jensen misses having those huge hands manhandling him, and he misses hearing Jared's laugh without the filter of the laptop between them, and he misses the chance they'd have to have make-up sex after talking about the fight that they just had—

What eventually kicks Jensen back out of his own head, though, isn't Jared or anything about him. It's the feeling of his phone going off in his jeans' pocket. Looking down at the text message, he groans. "I hate to cut this short, Babe," he says. "But I've gotta go. Misha's too tipsy to get himself home from Mark's—and he says he needs a ride like, now. So I guess it's probably kinda important."

*******

Misha all but storms over to Mark's—he runs the whole way, in jeans and a t-shirt and his hangover hoodie, even though the only thing he could possibly be hungover from is finals, is grading exams and essays, is turning in his own papers—but when the door swings open and Mark's arching an eyebrow at his unexpected guest, Misha beams at him. That's all he can do, and his face aches from the strain of smiling so much. He flops against the door's frame, trying to reign it in somewhat, trying to go for a devious smirk instead of his ecstatic sort of look, and when Mark asks who died and left Misha ten million dollars—"And can I have some of it, by the by, once you've paid the taxes and your student loans?"—Misha just shrugs. Saunters in. Tugs at the sides of his hood as if he's popping a collar.

"Guess who got down to one-seventy-five for Christmas?" he says, sing-songs to Mark's apartment, by way of explaining everything about his good mood. But when he turns back, Mark's still arching his eyebrow, giving Misha a look that's kind of off-kilter, a little bit sad, if Misha didn't know any better. He pouts in return. "Well, don't look so excited for me, Mark. This is only kind of _amazing_ —and just look."

Misha wriggles out of his hoodie and chucks it over to the sofa. Leaves himself standing around in a t-shirt that fits him just right—tight enough that he's not swimming in it, but loose enough to leave something to the imagination, loose enough that it hides what he reveals when he lifts up the hem: a little bit of pudge around his middle, a little bit of a muffin-top pooching out over the waistband of his jeans—but it's still significantly reduced. Grinning, Misha looks up from his middle, beams at Mark again—and gets rewarded with Mark blinking at him as though Misha's gotten talking like a rocket scientist or something. Somehow, he expected more of a positive reaction—more congratulations, or even just an invitation to have sex tonight—not Mark knotting up his brow, frowning deeply in what looks like disappointment? Concern?

"Come on," Misha tells him with a sigh, barely fighting the impulse to roll his eyes and pout more thoroughly, to get looking like Mark went and canceled Christmas. "Can't you at least pretend to be happy for me? I haven't been able to wear these jeans comfortably since September. And okay, I've still got a little bit of belly left to lose, but I've done pretty well so far, right? And I got down to one-seventy-five for Christmas, so… victory, maybe?"

"It's hardly that I'm not happy for you," Mark says, shakes his head, combs his fingers through his hair as he shoves past Misha to flop on the couch. He combs his eyes up and down Misha's body in a way that makes Misha's skin crawl. Makes the fine hairs on the back of his neck prick up on end. Makes him feel like some art exhibition, and makes him wonder if Mark's developed X-ray vision. "I just… I'm not seeing the quote, 'little bit of belly-pudge' unquote that you're supposed to have?"

"Excuse me but… the fuck, _what_?" Misha groans and grabs at a roll of his paunch. He shakes it at Mark—bites back on a shudder at the way his whole stomach jiggles around; it's not fair, he's only fifteen pounds away from his goal, and he's still a goddamn bowlful of Jello—he tries to push his tummy forward, even though this makes his heart drop like a cartoon anvil, just so Mark will get the fucking point. Just so he'll get it through his head that, for all the work he's done to lose this weight, Misha's still slightly chubby. A bit soft around the edges.

All Mark does is bury his face in his palm, come back up while rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "The only thing I see here, Ivan Karamazov, is my reasonably fit friend, who happens to be obsessing over what seems less like fat to me and more like skin. Granted, yes. I could be wrong. But you're still quite thin, and I don't entirely see the point in enabling the wretched voice in the back of your head that would happily contradict me."

"Yeah, because I can't lose any weight, period, end of story, without it being related to that so-called eating disorder that I don't have. Or are we still going to beat that dead horse? Are we going to beat that dead horse until it turns into a zombie? I just need to know this because nope—just not gonna happen—I don't need to get involved in yet another undead crime against nature. I learned my lesson from DeForrest Kelley."

"That's not even remotely where I was going to go with that line of thinking, actually." Mark keeps rubbing at the bridge of his nose, looking like there's not going to be an offer of sex that comes up tonight, because maybe Mark's nursing a huge headache, or maybe he's only getting it because of something that Misha's doing. Maybe Misha ought to feel guilty about inflicting a headache on his friend and pretend-therapist. Maybe Misha should feel like shit for making Mark feel like shit.

With a huff and without apology, Misha flops down next to him, slumps back against the armrest and drapes his legs over Mark's lap. "So, where were you going to go with it, then? I think I've got a right to know that, really. Since, y'know, you're going all wonky and making implications about _me_ and _my_ mental health."

Mark sighs like he's got something to hide, or maybe like he's just worn down from finals like everybody else—all heavy, and weary, and letting the angst claw up from the pit of his chest—and he gives Misha that _look_ again. The long, sad one that Misha can't really read—he could look concerned, or disappointed, or just generally sad. He could be trying to say that Misha's worrying him, or he could be trying to say that he's just tired of jumping through these hoops with Misha, whatever the hoops are supposed to be, or he could be trying to say something else that Misha can't even begin to fathom. From the way he keeps looking at Misha, he expects Misha to intuit it, but Misha can only shrug, shake his head by way of saying that he's completely lost until Mark deigns to fix that.

"You were just doing so… _well_ ," he says through another sigh. "Making progress, I mean—and not in the way where you obsess about your weight."

"Is there any evidence going around to say that I'm not still doing well?" The words ring hollow in Misha's mouth, even as he throws them out there like they're the fucking truth. Even as he gives Mark an insistent shrug, Misha gets the sinking feeling that comes from lying to his friends—and the nagging, worrisome itch at the back of his neck that says but, no, it's necessary to lie like this—he tries to keep up the façade, though: "I mean it, Mark… I'm doing fine. I'm not obsessing about anything related to my weight. I just wanted to celebrate because I got down to one-seventy-five."

"It's below freezing outside and it's supposed to snow tonight—did you drive over, or did you walk?"

"I ran over—well, _jogged_ is probably the more appropriate word for it, considering, but… I had my hoodie on, and it wasn't all _that_ cold—not really, anyway. Nothing I couldn't handle on my own—"

"That's sort of the crux of the issue, though, isn't it? You and how you insist on handling things on your own…" Mark sounds ready to groan, but it comes out like a half-baked sigh instead. Complete with him trying his damnedest to bite back on the noise and say nothing. "That's really why so many of us worry about you, you know. Because we _know_ how you handling things _on your own_ has a tendency to go—not that you can't handle anything on your own, but when this discussion's on the table, it does tend to get a bit… shall we say, squiffy. And when you place so much of your happiness on the fact that you lost weight…"

Shaking his head, Mark slouches further into the cushion behind him, looking more worn down than Misha's ever seen him look. He's pale—so much so that the dark rings around his eyes stand out in stark contrast to his crypt-keeper pallor—and he looks like he could pass out right now. "Combined with the denial?" he says. "Everything you do adds up to a compelling and vexing image—that's all I'm saying."

"There's nothing going on with me—at least, not like that," Misha says, folding his arms over his still-pudgy stomach. How Mark can be so oblivious to its presence, to the hard reality of it is absolutely beyond Misha. "It's really, _really_ not like I'm obsessing or anything over here."

Mark shakes his head, and Misha's not sure how much he wants to know what Mark's thinking—he might, at some point, need to know what's going on in that head of Mark's, but on the other hand, it's so much easier not to know. Misha can still claim plausible deniability—and anyway, it's easier for them to slip out of whatever this conversation thinks it is when it's at home. It's easier to pull out what Misha wanted to do when he came over here—the Princess Bride drinking game, with Mark's haphazard and borderline nonexistent rules for it, taking shots for every memorable line or just whenever they feel like it. Which, for Misha, means taking shots slightly less often than Mark does, because he can't shake the thought that he's just downing empty calories. Empty calories that are too easy to forget because they're liquid and they go down so easily.

At least the liquor Mark breaks out isn't that potent—Misha might be looking to get tipsy, but getting fucked up is nowhere on his agenda. He wants to be able to recognize himself in the mirror. By the time Westley and Buttercup reach the Fire Swamp, though, Misha's got a nice buzz going on. His chest flushes all warm and tingly; his head swims in a comfortable, contented lack of full awareness; and his tongue's just loose enough for him to forget himself, forget what he's saying, forget that maybe he shouldn't throw out there, sighing in more nostalgia than he'll ever admit to having for anybody's sake… "This was Richard's favorite part of the whole movie."

"It still is. He's still absolutely mental about the Rodents Of Unusual Size…" Mark says, and starts to snicker—but all Misha can manage to do is stare at him. Blink like Mark's sprouted a second head. It takes this looking at him—it takes several long moments of staring at Mark and letting all his cerebral processors hum—for Misha to wrap his head around exactly what Mark's said. Specifically, it takes so long for Misha to get his head around the tense of those verbs.

And just in case he's wrong— _Please, let him have misspoken. Please, let me have misheard. Please, please, please, let me be wrong about what's going on here, **please** , I need to be wrong_—Misha spits out there, "Excuse me? What?"

"Oh," Mark snorts as though nothing's wrong at all. "Richard—I was just saying that he's still absolutely mental about the ROUSes—can't imagine why, personally. They only ever struck me as a massive annoyance, but I suppose he thinks they might be fun to have as a pet or something."

"How would you know what Richard thinks about the ROUSes? How would you know what he thinks in the present tense, anyway?"

Mark scoffs, blowing a half-assed raspberry. He throws back another shot and doesn't look away from the TV. "You're lucky you've got your looks, Princess," he says through a laugh that hits Misha like a smack across the face. "You really are, sometimes. I mean, I know you're brilliant—you're an evil genius, with the emphasis definitely falling on _genius_ —but I've never been particularly subtle over here."

"Who's spectacularly avoiding the question now?" Misha can't even bring himself to arch an eyebrow at Mark. He tongues at his chapped lips. Can't shake the vertigo feeling like his brain's dropped into his stomach and left his head spinning around in utter chaos. As he pours Mark another shot, his chest and his limbs all tingle like they're going to catch fire. "How do you know what Richard thinks in the present fucking tense, Mark."

"I'm not… I'm not _avoiding_ anything," Mark splutters, slurs. If they were at a bar, he'd probably topple off his seat. " _You_ just didn't ask me nicely, and I mean… well, how fucking else would I know what Richard thinks in the present fucking tense, _Misha_. That last _conference_ I went to?" He pauses, smirks lopsidedly, makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "That wasn't really a conference. That was me going out to see Richard at his place. He's only barely two hours from here, has been since he…"

Finally, it starts to dawn on Mark what he's saying. His jaw drops open until he looks like a dead fish and he can't meet Misha's eyes. He mutters an, _oh, shit_ —he heaves a deep, heavy sigh—and once he starts trying to explain himself, the rest happens so quickly that Misha can't keep track of it. He doesn't know how it happens, but he smacks Mark. Somehow, he ends up flopped out in Mark's armchair, the one that Mark always sits in when they play therapist—he's wearing his shoes again, so he must've tried to head for the door, and his arms hurt where Mark must've grabbed them to keep him from leaving, and his ears ring with a protest of, _no, no, wait, I can explain this, really, I can, Misha, wait_ —and Misha's entire body wants to burn, itches to put his fist through something that would hurt him back. Something like a glass window.

"What the _fuck_ ," Misha hisses, "kind of explanation could you _possibly_ have for not telling me something like this, Mark? I could understand _Matt_ not telling me, if he knows about this. We ended badly—me and Richard, I mean. And me and Matt. And if Matt's not feeling a little vindictive, then he'd at least want to protect Richard by not telling me what in the Hell was happening, but you? _You_? Mark, I just can't even _believe_ … You, of all people, know how fucked up I've still been about what happened with Richard. Why wouldn't you just _tell_ me?"

"Do you want the real answer or do you want the slightly more polite fiction?" That Mark manages to say all that without slurring his words is probably some sort of miracle and a half. And he groans when Misha insists that he wants the _truth_. "The truth is… well. The truth is that… Partly, I didn't think you needed to know about it?"

"I'm still fucked up over a break-up that happened at the end of sophomore year, all I want out of him is some fucking closure, and I didn't need to know about it, Mark?"

"Not from my perspective—how was I supposed to know that it wouldn't make you feel worse? Besides, Princess, it's… It's not as easy as, 'I know where Richard is, I see him sometimes, I know how he's doing and that he misses you and exactly why he left the way he did.' You did a fucking number on him, too. That's probably why—and I mean, I don't really have an explanation for this part—but he asked me not to tell anyone. Not you, or Matt, or anybody."

Misha might seriously be too intoxicated to handle hearing this right now. He might need to make sure that he never has to hear it, ever, however he needs to do that. Sighing, he beats his head against the back of Mark's chair and combs his hand back through his hair. "I had an excuse, though. Everyone could see I wasn't well at the time, and I can even acknowledge it—"

"Well, he has an excuse for what happened, too, and just…" Mark trails off into shaking his head, giving Misha that long, sad look again. "As your fake therapist? I think, perhaps, we ought to drop this subject until we're sober. And possibly until after Christmas."

*******

Misha shambles out of Mark's apartment before he's even texted Jensen to ask him for a ride home. He spends twenty minutes waiting outside on a bench, letting snow collect on his shoulders, and when he slides into Jensen's front seat, he splutters out all of what happened, tells Jensen about what he's learned and what Mark knows—and in exchange, he gets to hear about how Jensen and Jared had an argument—their first in a long while—and one that similarly went unresolved.

"But enough about me and my troubles," Jensen says with a sigh, wrapping an arm around Misha's shoulders and guiding him into their building. "I'm just sort of wondering now… Is it really the best idea for you to go home tomorrow? Sure, you've got a ticket already, but… do you maybe need a day to recover before you have to see your mom?"

Misha sighs and slouches into the elevator, pushes the button for their floor and slumps into the wall. "Jenny, you're my best friend and I love you," he says and combs his hand back through his hair. "But I think going home for Christmas is exactly what I need right now. And if you're objecting to me going home and seeing my Mom, then… aren't you doing the exact same thing that you just got pissed at Jared for doing to you?"

Jensen doesn't give him an answer, and he doesn't need to—not really, anyway. They both know what's going on. …Well, Jensen doesn't know how clearly everything's coming back to Misha now, how he could swear that it's sophomore year all over again, or how he can't stop himself from crying in the cold shower that he takes—but, then again, maybe Jensen doesn't need to know about that part. It'd just give him more ammunition to say that Misha's too vulnerable to go see his Mother for Christmas—and Misha can't allow that.


	26. My New-Old Friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha goes from zero to hot mess in the space of about a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used in this chapter are: "panic attacks" for ~hc_bingo and, "haze" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

They catch the train back home around mid-morning, which is still too early for Misha to survive without an IV drip of coffee, not least because he drank just enough of Mark's tequila for his head to be making spirited attempts to fucking kill him. When Jensen drives them over to the station, Misha white-knuckles around a bottle of water, one that he refills from the drinking fountain before getting on the train.

Drowning in his hangover hoodie, he pulls the hood up around his head to block out the glare of the compartment's fluorescent lights, slouches onto Vicki's shoulder before the train even takes off—she has to nudge him into waving at Jensen out the window. She has to remind Misha that social niceties are a thing that happens, that Jensen's waving at him, so he should probably be polite and reciprocate.

After that, Misha mostly just stays quiet, lolling in and out, half-asleep on Vicki's shoulder because she can read pretty easily without kicking him off. Because closeness comes so naturally to them—they don't really know how to be any other way but close. Even when they've spent summers apart, even when Misha's been his worst off in terms of being not-sick and not-disordered, they don't know how to sit next to each other without someone slumping into someone else or without touching skin on some level, even if it's just the fingertips, without seeking out each other and the confirmation of each other's presence.

It's warm, all curling into Vicki's side—it's warm, and it's home, in its own peculiar way, and she smells like her favorite cinnamon-spice body wash—Misha sighs as she cards her fingers through his hair and joins her in putting his feet up on the seats opposite them, since no one else is sitting there. The best part of everything is that, for a while, Vicki understands that Misha needs some peace and quiet, a little bit of space despite how he's attaching himself to her shoulder, playing like a barnacle.

Their silence lasts long enough that his ibuprofen kicks in and his headache starts subsiding, and she lets him believe that it's going to hang around, that he's going to get out of the same treatment that Jensen gave him last night—the whole rap about how talking out your feelings will make them easier to deal with. Talking out his feelings won't get Misha what he wants, won't get him thin or give him the explanations that Mark still owes him about all of the bullshit with Richard. Talking out his feelings won't make them go the fuck away and stop making his life so goddamn difficult without giving him all that much of anything in return.

"So, are we going to talk about what happened at Mark's last night," she says eventually, brushing her fingers through his hair again and without looking up from her book. "Or are you just going to keep using me as a pillow without clueing me into what's gone and gotten you into such a clingy mood."

"I'm not _using_ you," Misha says through a huff and nuzzles at her shoulder by way of getting more comfortable on it. "I'm not using your shoulder either. I have the utmost respect for both of you—besides, if you were the one with the hangover, I'd let you take a nap on me instead of making you talk about your feelings. Or trying to. Because I don't want to talk about it. To you or to anybody. Though you do represent a marked improvement over most of humanity."

At least she spares him the tiresome lecture about how talking about his feelings is somehow good for him: "Well, I'd like it if you talked to me about it," she says. "Or them. Or whatever you're comfortable with talking about—even if it's just the weather, or how your students did on their finals, or how tight Jensen's jeans are, because they look just about painted on, and you _must_ have noticed that."

"Of course I've noticed it—I've been helping the gorgeous asshole, how could I not notice it?" Misha shrugs and shifts in his seat, against her side. Somehow, he finds a way to curl into her further—it involves tangling up their legs, getting his half-bent and curled around hers—and sighing from the pit of his chest, Misha rubs his cheek against the soft fabric of Vicki's sweater. "All that happened at Mark's was that we watched _The Princess Bride_ , we got a little drunk, and he had to go and tell me that he knows where Richard is. He's known where Richard is for a while. Or something like that. He was pretty sauced and so I was I, it was kind of difficult to keep track of everything."

Vicki goes quiet for a long moment and slumps her head down into his. Closes her book and sets it down on its spine, between her thigh and the wall. It settles in with what sounds like a thud, even though it's scarcely that loud, even though Misha barely hears it over the ambient noise of other people's conversations and the train's wheels on the track. In lieu of saying anything, she reaches up again, combs her long, thin fingers through his hair in short, rhythmic strokes—strokes that could easily lull Misha back into sweet unconsciousness.

And for a while, it's just like that. More silence and Vicki's fingers in his hair while she tries to think of something to say to him—which is all the more evidence, for Misha, that Mark's a fucking jackass and maybe should've told Misha something, anything, even just a little bit of, _I've been seeing Richard and he doesn't want to see you because of reasons_ —even Vicki can't find the words, can't think of how the fuck to respond to this situation. It's all just Hell.

"Did Mark say anything about _why_ he hasn't told you about Richard?" she says, still rubbing through Misha's hair and still being entirely more patient than Misha would be with himself, in her position. "Because I can think of a few potential reasons that wouldn't entirely excuse what he's done, but would explain it somewhat more sympathetically."

"He made up some patronizing bullshit about how he didn't want to upset me and make my nonexistent eating disorder worse—"

"Don't even start on that train of thought, brother." Vicki pauses in playing with his hair so she can flick Misha in the forehead—and she flicks him again when he whines about it. "I'm not in the mood to debate whether or not you have an eating disorder. We're not going to agree on that count—experience and precedent say we won't, anyway. Let's just keep focused on the issue of what Mark did and why?"

"Well, his other reason was that, apparently, I did a number on Richard, too—and that's about when Mark said we should wait to have the whole conversation until we sobered up, or maybe even until after Christmas, but…"

Misha huffs and crosses his arms over his stomach, just thankful that it's smaller than it has been all semester, that his diet's been working and maybe, Mom won't have any reason to get cross with him, though Misha's definitely still cross with himself over how pudgy he's let himself get. "But I don't even really know that I want to have the full conversation? It's just like… why the Hell would I want to let this bullshit emotionally kick me in the balls all over again?"

Vicki drops her hand from his hair. "Is there any reason why you don't want to let it get to you? I mean, aside from the obvious part where emotional upset sucks—why would this, in particular, suck more than anything else that Mark could go and drop on your precious little head?" 

"Oh, no real reason why, Victoria. I guess it's probably just because I'm still pretty clearly fucked up about how things ended with Richard and considering what happened after he left, I'm not exactly thrilled about bringing everything back to the surface and having to deal with it—and since everyone I really give a shit about seems to think that I have triggers? I'm not sure why any of you people would want me to deliberately put myself into an emotionally volatile situation like that."

Misha sighs, nudges so close into Vicki's side that she has to put her arm back around his shoulders. "But all of that's strictly hypothetical and sort of dancing around the point of how I just don't want to deal with that shit."

"You're such an asshole when you're feeling vulnerable," she says, voice snow-soft and painfully gentle. "If you want to hear my assessment of things? If it makes a difference to you at all? Well, granted that I'm not you or Richard, but I saw you two in action. I know how much you two loved each other. And, sometimes, when the circumstances don't play out in your favor, that kind of love will bite all the players in the ass—and you know… maybe Richard just didn't want to deal with bringing everything up again, either. Sucks, but it's a real possibility to consider."

"Yeah, except for how the one thing I've learned this semester is that dealing with things that way doesn't work as well as I've liked to hope. All it's ever done for me is kick my ass—did I ever tell you that finally told Mark and Jensen about Matt? Fat camp Matt, I mean, not Richard's Matt. They knew about Richard's Matt. …I told them about fat camp, too. Mixed reactions across the board. Mark thought I was making it up to dick with him."

Misha sighs again—he's rambling and he hates it. Maybe he needs to just go back to sleep until they're back home. That'll get his mind off of how much everything sucks, off of how he wishes home were close enough to his and Jensen's place for him to run back to it, instead of taking this goddamn train and sitting on his ass for so many hours. He didn't get his run in this morning, and he itches to just cut loose and run until his veins and muscles burn.

But all he says as he nods off again is, "Love you, Vicks. Why can't everybody be as cool as you."

Her smirk is audible as she replies, "Because, secretly? Having everyone be like me would actually make the world a very boring, repetitive, awful fucking place. Simple facts. I'd stop being original and it'd just suck."

*******

Just as planned, Mom and Dad meet them at the train station. It's mid-afternoon now, the sun's starting to sink down and might properly set by the time they get home, and while Vicki drops her duffel bag to hug Dad first, Misha sets his rolling suitcase up and wilts into Mom's embrace—which he guesses that he probably shouldn't do. Just like how he probably shouldn't be planning on going for a run as soon as he gets home—but he still is, and he still does hug her.

More than that, he gives her hug back with equal ferocity, clings to her the same way he did to Vicki. Everything that Vicki, Mark, and Jensen have ever said about her wells up in Misha's mind as he lets her tug him in—everything about how she's triggering for him this, or how she's all disrespectful and fat-shaming that, or how she's just not good for Misha's psyche or his emotional health—and all of it melts away just as quickly when he wraps his arms around her shoulders, leans down enough to bury his face in the curve of her neck, in the sweet, familiar stench of her floral perfume.

"Oh, I missed you too, Baby," she coos, patting him on the back, right between his shoulder-blades—and it doesn't matter, whatever she's done that just doesn't sit well with the other people who love Misha. It doesn't matter, how many times she's ever (unwittingly, he's sure of it) made him feel like he wasn't good enough or like something about his very existence was so wrong. It doesn't matter because she's his Mom, and she does love him, and he understands why she ever did anything that might've upset him.

To help him—that's why she did it all. Because it wasn't healthy or any kind of good for him, the way that he was when he was younger—it wasn't good for him because he didn't have any self-control. As she tightens her arms around him—as Misha licks at his lips and just hopes that she'll miss how pudgy he's gotten—as they pull back and she brushes her hand down his cheek, tells him that he looks so tired—as Misha's just thankful that she didn't say he looks so fat, he knows exactly what's going on in his head. He knows the voice piping up, reminding him of how good control feels and how good emptiness feels, reminding him that he hasn't gone on his run yet today and that this makes him weak…

He knows this voice, and he knows that he shouldn't listen to it, but he goes out for an hour-and-a-half when they get home, anyway, and he fakes sick to get out of dinner. He's careful not to skip too many meals outright—Vicki's watching, and Dad wouldn't understand, if he knew what was going on or got clued into any of it, and for once, Mom's not especially disappointed in him. She beams when she brags about him, about the work he's doing even though he doesn't know what it is, on the phone with her sister, while they're planning out Christmas dinner. She cards her fingers through his hair at breakfasts and she knots her brow in concern when he comes back in from his runs, when she asks how long he was out.

Finally, she isn't disappointed in him—and he can't screw that up all because he wants to stop eating. She won't keep up with it if he eats too much, though—she won't stay pleased with him if he gets fat again—so he eats. He just goes on two runs, daily, and sometimes, he stops at the park's public bathroom to make himself throw up.

*******

Misha keeps going as much as he can, sneaks around as much as he can, avoids food as much as he can and goes out for runs that well exceed what he should be doing in this weather. At least the neighbors clean up the ice on their sidewalks—he can't imagine what might happen if he fell and broke his leg again. An hour-and-a-half in the morning, an hour-and-a-half after dinner, everything ritualized and perfect the way that Misha needs it to be. He wants to stay out longer than he ever manages, but the cold nips at his skin and, besides, people might get suspicious. He gets enough raised eyebrows over how little he eats, how much he picks at meals.

And through all of it, Misha wonders why he ever bothered getting rid of this—why he ever let anyone tell him that this wasn't healthy, that it was terrible for him—the way his head starts swimming when he's hungry is better than anything else he knows. He can't believe he's gone so long without it, that he's let himself go and try to function without the intoxicating rush of emptiness—and he shouldn't let himself enjoy this as much as he does. Getting to the rush is bad for him, that's what everyone says about not eating enough, about trying to avoid eating in the first place—but Misha's stomach aches for the way his stomach starts clawing at itself, for the way his head spins when he stands up too quickly.

By the time Christmas dinner comes around, Misha's nerves teeter-totter on the edge of a razor-blade. He only barely forces himself to make it through welcoming all the extended family members into the house without dropping the character he needs to play, without dropping the pretense that he's happy to see them and happy to be surrounded by all the food. He has to force a grin when Grandma Krushnic tells him how he looks _so skinny_ , and strain every muscle in his face to make sure he doesn't falter when his cousin, Dwayne, still won't abandon the childhood nickname, _Tubby_. He has to dig his nails hard into his palm to keep from punching Dwayne in the mouth for that, for acting like it's such a big fucking joke.

Of course, he knows better than anybody that Dwayne's full of shit—Misha weighed in at one-seventy-two this morning, after only six days without seeing the business end of a scale—but that knowledge doesn't make it any easier for Misha to hear it from somebody who used to give him shit at every family function they wound up getting dragged to for being a big fat-ass. That knowledge doesn't make it any easier for him to deal with how snugly his trousers fit him—and okay, they're designed to fit tightly and they hug his (too chunky) hips and his thighs (which are still too porky to be allowed, for all his thigh-gap's slowly making a return)—Misha picked them so he wouldn't eat too much, lest he bust out of them and make an ass of himself in front of the whole family.

But at the moment, all they're doing is reminding him of how he still has rolls of squishy paunch lining his stomach, how it's still ever so slightly convex when it should be flat or better. All these trousers do is remind him that he hasn't lost weight enough to get content yet. All they do is cut into his flesh and remind him that he could still get misconstrued as fat. He might not be fat, but he could get seen that way by someone with a particularly judgmental perspective. And that still counts for something, doesn't it?

Trading presents goes well enough—Misha doesn't get any clothes or chocolate, just books and gift cards to buy more of them—but dinner itself is something that comes from the mouth of Hell—there's no other word for it but _unfair_. None whatsoever. To be surrounded by all of this food that he can't have—to be surrounded by a honey-glazed ham, roasted turkey and stuffing, vegetables drenched in gravy instead of just steamed the way he wanted them, a casserole… The only lip-service to eating healthily is a salad, and when Misha tries to get away with just picking at it, Vicki has to go and ask if he's feeling okay, if he wants anything else to eat with that, if he wants to eat something more substantial or if he's really fine with next to nothing. It's easy for her to say—it's easy for her to sit there and eat whatever she wants—it's easy for Vicki, like everything fucking is.

She arches an eyebrow at him when he tries to insist that he's just not hungry, that he picked too much when he was helping Mom make everything up. "Well, if you're sure," Vicki says, not even trying to mask her sigh—one that finds echoes in Grandma Krushnic reminding Misha that it's Christmas and he looks too thin to just eat a salad for dinner. Someone jostles his shoulder, and it could be her, or it could be Dwayne—Misha's unaware and he doesn't care to investigate—what's the point, when everything adds up to the same bullshit, the same insistence that he needs to eat more than he wants to allow himself? It occurs to him, when Vicki gives him another _Look_ , that he hasn't texted Jensen this whole time they've been at their separate homes for break—and something in Misha itches to do it now, to beg Jensen for help.

Help with what, Misha has no idea—but Jensen would probably know—Jensen would probably know and be able to do something about it, unless he's pretty bad off, too, in which case all Misha would do? Is add a pile of unnecessary angst onto Jensen's plate.

It's probably that something that makes him zone out, once Dwayne sneaks a slice of chocolate cake down in front of Misha—it's probably that something that gets the cake down without really tasting it—and it's something else entirely that sends Misha bolting for the upstairs bathroom once he realizes what he's done. Something stronger, something better. He grabs up his toothbrush, drops to his knees—remembers how to do this as though he's been doing it every day, ever since he swore to stop—and good thing, too, because he can't allow this story to play out the way that _they_ all want it to—he can't let himself keep the cake down. He never should've eaten it in the first place, but since he has… His heart races as he stabs the toothbrush at the back of his throat, depresses his tongue, coughs—it only slows down when he finally sicks up.

And Misha can't even enjoy that feeling of success for too long—because the lumpy, bemused sludge that comes up isn't enough, can't possibly be enough. Because he must still have something inside of him to get up—because he must still have something, some hint of the cake, that can't possibly be all of it—there's a jerk around the pit of Misha's stomach as he gets another round up, his eyes sting and water, and it's like he tears out of himself. He can't feel anything, but he can see himself kneeling before his altar, hacking on still another round of vomit—he hears footsteps thundering down the hallway and someone rapping on the door—did he remember to lock it? He believes he did. Why wouldn't he remember something so simple? How could he forget it when it's always, always, always the first step in this? Lock the door so no one can find you or figure it out.

The handle jiggles—Misha crashes back into his body. The bathroom door creaks open, and the toothbrush feels like an anvil on his tongue, the freezing tiles dig at his knees through his trousers. He knows it even before he gets up another round of bile and acid and half-digested food, even before he hears Mom gasp, before he hears Vicki muttering, _oh, God, Misha_ : he is so totally fucked.

*******

Misha's bedroom feels freezing cold, even though he knows that's ridiculous because the heat's on and he's balled up underneath two comforters and one of Grandma Krushnic's hand-crocheted afghans. He's supposed to be burning up like this. He's supposed to be dealing with too much heat, not freezing his ass off.

He's supposed to be acting like he's sick, hence the multiple blankets. Since Vicki made the excuses for him, he has to play the part, in case any curious cousins or prying uncles come a-knocking and expect to see him sick in bed, the way he's supposed to be, because it's not like you can crash into Christmas dinner with the news that you and your Mom just caught your brother on the bathroom floor, gagging himself with a toothbrush.

That's how she puts it, anyway, with the caveat that she wants to talk about this when the house isn't full up of their extended family, and Misha just nods. Makes perfect sense to him. At least he's tired enough that slouching into his mattress and curling in on himself come naturally to him. He finds the fetal position without trying too hard.

After Vicki comes the loneliness. It drags on and on, leaving Misha uncertain of when it might stop or if he even wants it to stop—he blinks up at the ceiling and tries not to think about what a failure he is for screwing up so badly, how he could let them feed him cake in the first place, much less get himself caught in the act of throwing up. He tries not to think about all the things that Richard ever told him, especially not what he said when he was leaving— _I don't want to be in some fucked up threesome with your eating disorder_.

Dad doesn't show up and in a perverse way, Misha's grateful for that. Dad wouldn't understand, not really—or maybe he would, but on the other hand, it's just as likely that he wouldn't. Dad's too unpredictable for Misha to make plans on how to handle him. For better and for worse, Misha's always preferred his mother to his father, and he doesn't think he has the wherewithal to handle explaining himself to Dad right now. There's no way to make, _Dad, my ex-boyfriend thought I had an eating disorder and now I'm wondering if he was right_ sound any better.

It's not the first time that those words have rung true—Misha's wondered if they might not be right all of once before, in that moment when he found out that Richard was completely beyond his reach—but they sound somehow truer now. Misha sighs, pulls the covers up until he might as well be drowning in them—he barely even notices when the lights flick on. At that, he mostly notices because the door creaks open and he catches a whiff of Mom's sweet, familiar floral perfume. She crosses to the bed and asks him to sit up, please—of course he does, drawing his knees up to his chest, slumping into the headboard, and he inhales sharply when she joins him on the bed.

Mom sits on the mattress with him for a while. A long while—long enough that Misha starts to wonder if they're ever going to talk about anything or if they're just going to make silence at each other until one of them gives up and starts crying—sobbing, devolving into some jacked up, drippy-nosed histrionics—which will get the other one started crying, so they'll both just make a humiliating spectacle of themselves in a way that would belong on some exploitative television bullshit instead of in the middle of their lives—but that never happens. She just reaches over, finds his wrist without looking up from the floor, and lays her cold, bony hand on top of his. She squeezes him gently.

"How long have you done that, Baby?" she says, voice dry and barely above a whisper.

"Since that summer." Misha sighs—he should lie; he knows that he should lie; but he can't—not to Mom. Not when he's put so much time and energy into lying to everyone he knows already. "The one before junior year. But it's been on and off—but I thought about doing it before I really started—but… I know that it's a problem."

He just hasn't wanted to admit it—and technically speaking, he hasn't even done that. He's gotten caught. There's a difference. A huge one.

"I won't lie and tell you that it's okay, Baby," Mom says and moves her hand up to squeeze his wrist. "But I'm sorry, and it's going to be. We'll get you the help that you need."

"It's not your fault, Mom. It's nobody's fault but mine… It's really not."

"It's not as though I've been particularly helpful, though. I haven't been there for you when you've needed it, but I'm going to be here for you now."

He sighs, and nods, and laces up his fingers with hers. God help him, he believes her. And true to her promise, Mom calls up Doctor Rhodes first thing in the morning, gets Misha an appointment for before he and Vicki are scheduled to leave again. He never actually calls Jensen, just thinks about doing so.


	27. Restraint And A Lack Thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen admits some things to himself and to his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used here are: "restrained" for hc_bingo and, "confess" for 100 things.

When she hears about what happened the other night with Jared, Danneel's eyes nearly bug out of her head. "So, you two actually had a fight? Like, a _fight_ fight?"

"Gee, Dani, thanks for making me feel so much better about the situation." Jensen's sorely tempted to glare at her, but doing that while they're sitting in an airport, waiting to get on their flight back to Texas? Seems like a bad idea. People might get the wrong idea about them—might think that she called him Chunky or otherwise picked on him for his weight—and no matter what he might wish to the contrary, Jensen's all too likely to accidentally create some damn scene all because he got it in his head to glare at Danneel and acted on it. Then it'd be a huge mess and he'd regret it.

Not that it's anybody else's business what he and Danneel talk about—or how Jensen looks at her—but that hasn't stopped people from casting sidelong glances their way since they got on the bus. Folks in line at security whispered while not trying all that hard to look like they weren't staring at Jensen. When they swung by the McDonald's near their gate so Jensen could grab breakfast, they attracted more than a few stray onlookers, collected still more people while he ate the damn food—and even now, all they're doing is sitting by the gate, waiting for their boarding call—Jensen's not even eating anything, just occasionally taking sips from his coffee—and every so often, someone still stares in their direction like, _what is she doing with the likes of him?_

Jensen's not sure what offends him more about this presumption: the fact that they think he couldn't get a girl like Dani if he wanted to, or the fact that they apparently think he's dating his cousin. Not that it's entirely their faults—it's not like they just know that Danneel's his cousin—but even so. Jensen's going to hold them accountable for these things, even if there's no recourse for him to do so. They deserve it for staring at him.

They probably could've avoided the whole mess if Mackenzie had flown back home with them, but apparently, she's got something big going on today—something too big to rearrange for the sake of Christmastime with the whole family—so she's not flying out until tomorrow. So Jensen's stuck with things the way they are—he's stuck wondering who all's watching him as he ghosts his hand down the curve of his belly, wondering who's getting scandalized every time he muffles a burp behind his hand, wondering why it's any of these people's business to watch on and judge him like they've never seen a fucking fat guy before.

At least he's stuck in it with Danneel—though her approach to handling the Jared Issue currently leaves a lot to be desired.

"It's just not like you and Jared to have fights, okay? I'm allowed to be a little surprised by this revelation," she says, drawling at Jensen in that way she usually saves for when she thinks he's being perfectly ridiculous about something. "What'd you two have a fight about?"

Jensen sighs and shakes his head. "I don't even really know. Nothing much, really. Except everything, too. Some of it was about his internship over at Oxford, and some of it was about not getting to see each other until Valentine's Day, and some of it was about both of us being tactless assholes, but especially Jared, on that count—"

"So basically, the two of you were being big, dumb boys and having a big, dumb boy pissing contest about who loves the other one more, then it exploded all over your faces like a cum-shot?"

"A little bit, yeah?" Jensen wouldn't put it in those terms exactly, but then again, Danneel's turns of phrase are pretty uniquely Danneel and always have been. He catches sight of some older ladies staring over at the two of them, looking utterly scandalized—and he can't be sure if it's because of Danneel or because she's sitting with him, so he rolls his eyes, slouches in his seat, spreading his legs so his belly has more room to flop out into his lap. "It was more than that, too, though. Like, he said some shit about Mom and my self-esteem and I guess I maybe got a little defensive about it?"

"Well, you have been known to get defensive of Aunt Donna—because you're a Momma's boy, and you love her, and really, it's kind of adorable, if not necessarily always the best thing for you to do. Because sometimes, the way she picks on your weight really can be worrisome." Danneel shrugs when Jensen gives her a befuddled look—as if to say, _well, I'm just telling it like it is, Cutie_ —and yawning deeply, she leans into his side, nuzzles around until she's comfortable.

If this is how she's going to be and act with Jensen, then no wonder all these creepy freaking airport people have gone and assumed they're dating.

He probably shouldn't run around, indulging her, but Jensen still puts the armrest between their seats up and adjusts his arm, drapes it around her shoulders, so Danneel can get even cozier and more at ease. She yawns again, and apparently takes this all as a sign that she's allowed to drape her legs over Jensen's lap and curl up into his side—and reminding her that they're supposed to board soon doesn't faze her any. She just shrugs again and drops her head onto Jensen's shoulder with a contented _hmmm_.

"Y'know," she says, after a few moments of blissful silence. "I might not get the whole feederism thing that you and Gen and Jay and Misha are all so into, but I will say one thing for it." She only pauses long enough for Jensen to ask what that one thing is. "It's made your shoulder into a much nicer pillow—so be a honey and tell Jay and Misha thanks for me, okay."

"I'm no expert," Jensen says with a chuckle, "but I think I should be offended over you objectifying me like that. Seriously, I think I'm allowed to get really pissed off at you for that."

"What _ever_ ," Danneel huffs. "You know I was only teasing you, Jenny. And if you're really that upset about it, then I'll apologize properly when I'm more conscious. I'll even bake you cookies or something."

Jensen snickers and squeezes her shoulder. "Make it cupcakes and you've got a deal."

*******

The flight's not terrible, but then again, Jensen sleeps or dozes off through most of it—he puts the armrest between their seats up so he can squeeze in and Danneel slouches into his side again, resting her head on the vague, soft area where he used to have a more visible collarbone. At least they have the whole row to himself, so no one else can go and complain about Jensen needing the armrest up, feeling too squished into the seat to only occupy the one. At least no one else gets to hear it when Danneel jokes under her breath that, sooner rather than later, Jensen won't be able to fly without buying two seats.

"Here's a pro tip about feederism and my life with it for you, Dani," Jensen says, snickers, ruffles her hair (and earns a whine and a scrunched-face, disgruntled kitten expression from her). "It's not like I want to just get immobile, or get so big, I break all the scales and milestones—and I definitely don't want to get that right off the bat. It's a process, too, and I get off on the process as much as the results. Plus, there's other stuff to think about… I like being able to go out in the world… three-hundred's the longterm goal for right now, and I'll see how I feel when I get used to that."

"You sound like you've been wanting to say that for a while," Danneel says, and fails to stifle a little yawn. "Maybe I'm not really the person you should be saying it to? Because it's a good explanation, really, and I think _he_ needs to hear it instead of me. Just maybe."

It strikes Jensen—and he's not entirely certain why his mind would go here, of all the places that it could go—that she failed to specify who _he_ is. Of course he's Jared, though. He has to be Jared—who else would _he_ be? Well, maybe Misha—he could be Misha—maybe there's something in that explanation that Misha needs to hear—or maybe there's something that Jensen, without knowing it, needs to say to Misha. What could it be, though? Jared, obviously, needs to hear about Jensen's plans, about his desires, about all his weight-related goals—because they _will_ work though whatever fight they're having over whatever stupidity it was about—and does Misha really need to hear it, too? Even just as Jensen's temporary feeder, does he need to hear it?

Well, yes, in that context, he really does—but if that's all—if that's really the only thing that's going on here—then why does Jensen's heart sink in his chest to think that this might be his stellar explanation? What is he not letting himself think about that might be right up Misha's alley? Insecurity—Jensen guesses that it could be that—because it _is_ strange, to be as big as he's made himself, to get dirty looks from people whom he doesn't know, to know how much work went into making himself this big and still want more—and it must be stranger still that Jensen wants to be bigger, even just so slightly, even just whatever the next twenty-five pounds or so bring to him. Jensen gets a hot, twisting feeling in his chest like something curling up around his lungs, all from the thought that he might never get there—it was hard when he and Jared started this, after all.

No one in their right mind could tell Jensen that Misha isn't insecure. But, then again, it's not the same thing, is it? That's what Mark said about Misha—that his kink and his eating disorder aren't the same thing. Misha puts all of his self-worth on his body, on whether or not it fits into some certain mold. Misha obsesses over his body and making it a certain way—thin, slender, lithe, athletic and flexible and idealized like some damn Photoshop abomination from the billboards and the magazine ads—and Jensen patently doesn't obsess about his body. Not like that. Not to his detriment. Not unhealthily.

But what really makes them all that different? That Misha wants to be thin and Jensen wants to be fat? Jensen remembers being thin—he remembers working so hard to keep his weight down because Momma told him it was better for him, to keep from getting chunky because it wasn't hard to glean that fat was bad—and he remembers, most of all, feeling so small, so weak, so fragile, even when he wasn't all that skinny. It wasn't anything he wanted, to strive so hard for abs and angles and to never know success. Losing weight, now that he's put it on, doesn't seem so much impossible; it just seems like a threat. A looming possibility that he might ever have to give up this way he knows his body, this way he's found to feel at home in his own skin.

All Jensen sees that's different about Misha is that he's never at home. He never gets used to his own skin but always works after some perfection that doesn't exist—and he beats himself up for not getting to it, instead of seeing it as an element within the larger picture of his health, both physical and emotional, and one that doesn't define who he is as a person.

Maybe they're only different because of the steps they take to get to the bodies that they want. Maybe they're only different because Jensen knows insecurity like a favorite shirt that he's outgrown but doesn't base all of his self-worth on his body. Maybe they're really not so different. Maybe Jensen only wants to think that they're different because if that's true, then his insecurity doesn't mean anything and no one can read into it.

Yawning, Danneel shifts against him, alerts Jensen to the fact that he's dozing but not sleeping, losing himself in thoughts that he can't resolve—at least that he can't resolve right now. He thinks about waking her up, he thinks about asking her for her opinion on any or all of this—but he doesn't. Not least because Jensen doesn't have the right to drag Danneel into Misha's issues. With a quiet sigh, Jensen keeps his thoughts to himself and dreams about eating cake off of Jared's abs.

*******

Momma's in fine, full-fledged critical form when Jensen and Danneel get down to the baggage claim—she meets them there, and once she's done giving Jensen his welcome home hug, the first words out of her mouth are, "Oh, Sweetie, did you get putting on weight again? Do I need to come up north with you and have a lil' chat with your boyfriend? Domestic bliss isn't supposed to be _quite_ this blissful, you know."

Jensen opens his mouth to stand up for himself—to try and say something, anything, that might make the pendulum swing more in his favor—but Danneel beats him to it, as she's hauling her suitcase up off the conveyor belt: "Actually, Jared's been doing a semester abroad, Aunt Donna. He hasn't had anything to do with Jensen's weight or with—"

"Then that would mean _somebody_ hasn't kept up with his diet and his exercise like he's supposed to do." Momma smirks, ever so fondly, and pats Jensen on the cheek. "But it's no matter, Dearheart—you still look healthy and I'm sure you'll be fine. Your father's trying to be more heart-smart, so there aren't as many treats lurking around the house to tempt you this year. Now, where's your luggage? He's waiting outside in the car."

So, things get off to a bad start, and as he trails his suitcase out to Dad's van, Jensen can't help thinking that there's no way any of this could possibly get worse. He should know better than to tempt fate like that.

After lunch down at the Sunrise Diner—where he can't hardly eat anything without Momma tut-tutting at him or arching her eyebrows as if to say, _Sweetie, are you really sure you need that_ —he sneaks out to buy a couple packages of holiday Oreos, stashes them up in his desk. But it doesn't really matter how well-hidden they are, or how often Jensen manages to sneak over to Danneel's for the sweets he's missing out on at home, or how happy he tries to fake like he really is, Momma doesn't let up on her newfound quest to tell Jensen without outright saying so that he's too fat and that his New Year's resolution should be to shave off the weight he's thrown himself headlong into gaining.

The thing is, they could resolve this issue pretty quickly, if she'd just outright say that she wants Jensen to lose some weight. If she'd approach the issue directly and let him know what she really thinks. Not like it isn't obvious—because it really, really is; it insists upon itself in the way that she drops extra steamed vegetables on his plate while giving him fewer mashed potatoes, and in the way she asks if he wants to join Josh on his early morning jogs, in the way that she—but she never says anything directly, so Jensen can't say anything back at her. Jensen can't just bring the subject up, because then he's accusing her of being passive-aggressive on top of trying to control his life and his decisions.

At least she never cottons on to what's going on during all the time that Jensen spends over at Danneel's, never questions him spending time with his favorite cousin—even when that time's also getting spent with Danneel's father and their fabulous baking. That's almost enough to make up for all the shit that happens while Jensen's at home, his mother's ignorance of what he's really up to in his free time—and that's mostly eating. Cookies, buttered tarts, cakes, truffles, slice after slice of Danneel's homemade pies—everything more delicious than its predecessors.

And it's not like it doesn't wear on him, all the sneaking around and trying to dodge Momma's eyes, because it does. It wears on him that he can't be himself with his fucking Momma. It wears on him that she thinks he's so fragile, he can't hear what she really thinks. It wears on him that he has to sneak around just so he can get his hands on enough food—enough calories—that he won't unwittingly lose any weight. The strain of having to hold back so much of who he is and what he loves comes close to outright souring Jensen's appetite more than once.

But, on the plus, it doesn't manage to do so. Not entirely. He's not supposed to be doing weigh-ins without Misha there to supervise, to keep track of the results for him and to keep him from potentially obsessing over the numbers, but Jensen wants something to console him. By Christmas Day, Jensen's up to a full two-seventy-eight.

*******

The problem is that Momma's no fool, and Jensen can't trust the little bit of leeway that he's gotten so far, the way that they've postponed having any kind of issue over him actively gaining weight under Momma's roof. And even someone as patient as she is has her breaking point—just like how even someone as used to putting up with her crap as Jensen has his own—all things considered, he should really see this coming, or at least something like it.

There's no way that he could get out of this visit home without the subject coming up properly, either because he snapped or because she did.

It shouldn't take him by any kind of surprise when, in the middle of his third slice of Danneel's chocolate creme pie, right as he's eyeing her dad's chocolate-raspberry torte, Jensen hears Momma say, "Sweetheart, weren't you supposed to be getting on a diet? I certainly _thought_ you were working on that…"

"Well, I don't think I ever said that," Jensen says without looking at her, only continuing to eyeball the torte. "I mean, I get where you're coming from, Momma, but I never said that and I don't want to be on a diet, so I'm just not going to be on one."

"But don't you think that you might need—"

"No, Momma, I don't think that I need anything." Jensen pauses, sighs and follows that with another deep breath—he'll need it for what he has to tell her. "D'you really think it's some kind of accident I went and gained as much weight as I have, Momma? Because if it were, that'd be some kind of health problem to look into and get fixing—"

"The biggest health risk that I see is your weight getting so high in the first place—"

"But I take care of myself like this, okay? I look out for myself, and Jared looks out for me, and you know what? I _like_ having my body like this. It makes me happier. It does—I haven't been happy when I've been thinner, and you know what? I'm happy like this."

Momma blinks at Jensen for a moment, in the way that a storm might blink at someone. She huffs, ever so slightly, and dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. She sets it down and folds her hands by her plate as if in prayer, then opens and shuts her mouth. It takes her a moment, but finally she whispers, "I just don't understand this, Jensen."

"No, Momma, I know you don't," he says—and before she gives him the furrowed brow and the hurt expression, he thinks it's come across much harsher than he meant for it to sound. "I just mean… I know it's different, and it's kind of a lot for you to understand? But it's okay that you don't understand it for right now, as long as you just let me live my life the way I want to live it, okay?"


	28. And there's reason to believe (maybe this year will be better).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha admits some things to Jensen, Jensen admits some of them in turn to Jared, and this is actually pretty okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the original prompt, this chapter uses, "confession in a desperate situation" for ~hc_bingo and, "knowledge" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

Jensen doesn't believe he expects a lot of things when he wanders back into the apartment on December thirty-first—some things, sure, but not that many.

He expects to come home to an empty flat, maybe get a little time to himself before the inevitable celebratory drinking to excess and making plans for the New Year that he might or might not really make good on. He expects for things to be quiet. He expects them to be lonely. He expects to end up calling Danneel, asking if he can come over and spend the night and drinking time over at her place since even being around James and Michael—as much as Jensen wishes they would just take a long walk off a short pier—is better than being alone on New Year's Eve.

Granted, it probably isn't saying too terribly much that it's better to spend time with James and Michael than to spend it alone. Lots of things are better than being alone on New Year's Eve, but it's more notable to Jensen that he'd rather spend time with Danneel's less-than-savory housemates than spend it by himself. Either way, Jensen expects that he'll have to end up spending time with them. He doesn't expect to stumble through the door, backpack hunching him at the shoulders and suitcase dragging behind him, and find Misha sitting on the sofa, drinking what he readily identifies as a rum-and-Diet-Coke.

Sighing, Jensen shakes his head, goes to ditch his suitcase in his room—he has to get rid of it before he can just flop out on the couch with Misha and try to enjoy himself. As much as he can when they're watching a blank TV and, by all appearances, not doing that much talking, for the moment. They manage that silence for a while, marring it only when Misha clinks the ice cubes around his glass, and breaking it only when Jensen points out that it's kind of early for Misha to be cracking into the liquor—especially considering what happened the last time he got into drinking with a friend. Just as a matter of concern, because Misha's face seems paler, maybe a bit more drawn.

Misha huffs and points out that it's close enough to five o'clock for government work—and well past it in several other time zones—and this is only Misha's first drink anyway, so he should be fine. So there, Jenny.

"Besides, I don't think you've been having some ridiculous, behind the scenes relationship—sexual, romantic, or of any other sort—with my ex-boyfriend," Misha says, dropping his head back into the sofa's cushion. "And anyway, I have to get my drinking done before I end up back on antidepressants. Because there's probably no way that I'm going to get out of that or dodge that bullet—and it's probably for the better, really, but you're not supposed to drink when you're on them. I'm just here hoping I don't end up on the ones that make you gain weight. That'd probably shoot my recovery in the foot before it even starts."

"Wait a minute, what," Jensen splutters and can't help the way that he blinks at Misha, goes all gaping, fish-mouthed and open and at a complete loss for what to say to any of this—not that it stops him from trying to soften his initial blow, because it probably came off too harsh. "Sorry, I didn't mean, like… I didn't mean it how it sounded, it's just… What do you mean, antidepressants?"

"Come _on_ , Jenny. Don't be obtuse with me—it's not a good look for you." Misha sighs, gives him a long look that Jensen can't quite read—all flat lips, and flat eyes, and skeletal pallor, even though he's not looking like he dropped that much weight, if any. "It's kind of a long story, anyway… Well. Okay, it's probably not that long, really. It's just super-depressing, and I mean… You know that something's not right about me. You've known it for a while now—probably since we first met, even—and it's just coming to a head now—"

"I didn't think anything was wrong with you when we first met." Jensen's not sure if he should be saying this or not—but something twists and snakes around the pit of his stomach, telling him that Misha needs to hear it—which Misha doesn't exactly help by blinking at Jensen like he has no honest idea what Jensen's talking about. Considering it's him, he probably doesn't. Considering it's Misha, considering he has some inhuman capacity for self-abasement, he probably _really_ needs to hear this—maybe more than Jensen can really get his mind around.

Jensen sighs again and cards his fingers back through his hair. "Seriously, though. When we first met, all I thought was that I really lucked out because my freshman roommate seemed impossibly cool—kind of skittery and nervous, but that made sense, I thought, because you probably wanted to impress the people on our hall. Plus, it was probably your first time away from your parents for longer than summer camp or something, and… okay, there's some stuff I've learned since then that makes me _worry_ about you? But it's not that anything's wrong with _you_. It's just these monkeys you've got on your back. Some stuff that you just need a little help dealing with."

"Which sounds an awful lot like there's something kind of, maybe, possibly _wrong with me_? Maybe there might be something wrong with the guy who's got a whole troop of monkeys on his back, hitting him with sticks and flinging feces at everybody and their moms?" Misha insists, drawling at Jensen in the same way that he usually saves for drawling at Vicki when she's probably right and he doesn't want to admit defeat.

Without another word, he polishes off his drink and dumps the ice cubes down the sink, then comes back with two beers in hand, gives one to Jensen, and sets his own—his lite beer, because Misha is still himself enough that he won't drink the full-calorie stuff—down on the coffee table. He curls his legs up to his chest, though, like he doesn't plan on drinking the thing but just balling himself up, hugging himself around the shins and resting his chin, then his cheek, then his forehead on his knees. Jensen mutters that Misha's jeans can't be all that comfortable for him to rub up on like some possessive kitten, but Misha just shrugs. Says that the denim's actually pretty soft—he might've used too much fabric softener when he washed them after all.

And then he does the damnedest thing—the thing that Jensen least expects, considering Misha's mood seems to be set on _mopey_ —but he still turns his head so his cheek's resting between his knee and the start of his thigh. He turns his head so he can look over at Jensen.

"I'm just having an issue with the whole antidepressants thing because I've been off them for almost five years?" he admits, voice new-fallen snow-soft. "I mean, I was on them from… Shit, I think I first started them when I was twelve? Maybe eleven or thirteen, but I think it was twelve. And I stayed on them all through fat camp, and high school, and then I thought that… well, I was managing fine, so maybe I didn't need to go see Doctor Rhodes anymore. Maybe I didn't need to be on the pills. And everything was cool for a while—until it wasn't anymore, you know?"

"I don't think I really do, no?" Jensen says, reaches over to squeeze Misha's wrist. "But that's not because you're not explaining it well enough or anything. It's more like… I've never been on psych meds, so I don't know how they work or how they make you feel or anything?"

"Well, let's just say that without them? I'd rather run until it's dangerous or make myself throw up because those things are better than feeling nothing. And I justify every fucked up thing I do by telling myself how worthless and unacceptable I am, and it all just builds up, and builds up, and builds up until…" His voice cracks a bit as he trails off.

Jensen squeezes his wrist again, and tries to prompt him, "Until what?"

"Until Vicki and our Mom catch me on the bathroom floor, gagging myself with a toothbrush after Christmas dinner? Or until I have to lie to you and Mark about why I'm late for a Skype date because the real reason I'm late involves making myself sick up the cake that Vicki tried to get me to keep down. Or until I rack up a whole year's worth of phys ed credit in six weeks or whatever the Hell that was back in junior year… It's like, God, just take your pick from the list of fucked up things I've done to myself, really. It's about ten fucking miles long, at this point…"

Swallowing thickly, licking at his lips, Misha lets his eyes slip shut. Flutters them open again as he takes a deep breath. "Jensen?" he says, barely above a whisper. "If you tell me how utterly unsurprising this is, I swear to God, best friend or no, I _will_ smack you right in your pretty face, not that I'll really want to do that or anything, but there's more…"

He sighs. Takes a moment before he manages to say, "Jenny? I have an eating disorder."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that much out," Jensen says and tries to give Misha a sympathetic smile—it probably comes out more wobbly than he wants it, but how is Jensen supposed to _avoid_ worrying, in this kind of situation? Huffing under his breath, he wriggles his hand around and wraps it around Misha's, laces their fingers up together. "I'm really more surprised to hear you _saying_ it? Not that that's a bad thing, though. Because it's not. At all. And… thanks for telling me about it, Meesh. Really. I know how much it means to you, so… it means a lot to me that you'd share it."

Misha shrugs. "My forms get to say, _Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified_ —if you're curious at all about what the official diagnosis is."

"They could say whatever they wanted, as long as you're not saying it isn't a problem anymore." Jensen huffs, then pouts as he has a thought: "You're not gonna say that it's not a problem, right? Like, you're not just beating yourself up because you're not tiny enough for anorexia or whatever?"

Shaking his head, Misha says, "ED-NOS is a problem in its own right, with its own set of pathology. I won't say I'm completely okay on the not self-abusing front? Because I could be better—I could be a lot better, actually. And I mean, I caught myself, over break, thinking that I'd feel better if I just didn't eat, or just ran an extra however many miles to make up for what I had to eat to make my parents think, 'well, he's eating, so he's okay,' or that if I were stronger, I'd just be anorexic outright? But…"

For a moment, all he does is nose at his knees, groan and glare at the TV like it owes him something. Once he's got his chin on his knees, he says, "I've got an eating disorder, Jen. I really, really, hand to God do. And the fact that I've got one matters more than what it's called, y'know?"

Jensen supposes that he knows, but the words feel hollow in his throat.

For all Jensen wants to second that emotion, he's not sure if he should? If it's his place to go around, having opinions about Misha's eating disorder or how Misha thinks about it or treatment or anything like that. And he's pretty sure there's something out there—or multiple somethings, even—to help people with friends or family members who have to deal with these kinds of things—but all Jensen's ever managed to do about reading any of them was chicken out of a Google search. Either way, at least Misha doesn't seem to mind the quiet—he runs his thumb along the back of Jensen's pudgy hand as if to say that this is really okay with him, because he needed a quiet moment anyway.

Looking back over at Jensen, Misha squeezes Jensen's hand before Jensen can move to squeeze his—and somehow just knows what question, out of all the possible ones, Jensen wants to ask: "I did talk to Doctor Rhodes over break. Appointment happened the day after Christmas and everything. She's got some other psychiatrist friend out here who I'm gonna start seeing, on top of going to the campus support group meetings for this kind of thing and a new nutritionist at that too, since… it's pretty clear I know enough about food and nutrition to make up healthy or not-so-healthy plans on my own, but I need help with that, since my plan usually isn't good for me. And I'm putting in to just take this semester off for mental health reasons, so then there's that, too."

"Wait, what, a _new_ nutritionist? When did you have the old one, then?" As soon as he's blurted this out, Jensen suspects that the answer's going to be, like, kicking himself levels of obvious.

Misha sure arches his eyebrow like it ought to be, at that. Even though it's a mixed bag of obvious and not: "I had a nutritionist, the first time, when I was fat, Jenny. Doctor Perkins, she was—or still is, I guess? I haven't seen her in a while, so it's kind of hard to gauge for the present tense, but… She's great. I mean it when I say she helped save me from myself when I was a kid. Her and Doctor Rhodes, they both did. I really needed it, too. Like, this is partly some disordered thinking, and partly some truth, but I was out of control, as a kid? I sure felt that way, anyway. But I thought of food as my friend when I didn't have any, but also my enemy, and my weight was just… You've seen the pictures. There's being a chubby kid, and then there's ballooning out and turning into a whale like I did."

Sighing, scratching at the back of his neck, Misha tacks on, "We didn't think of it as a _disorder_ at the time—just emotional eating and lethargy as a twin manifestation of my depression, but… In retrospect—and Vicki, my Mom, and Doctor Rhodes all think I'm right about this? But in retrospect, I just… I think I had an eating disorder back then, too? The pathology got different and mutated as I grew up, but I really think I had a disorder then, too."

The obvious part is that Misha first got a nutritionist because of the weight problems he had as a kid. The less obvious part—the part that leaves Jensen blinking at Misha for a moment and tonguing his lips as he searches for the words he wants in replying to Misha—is that there's a whole _disorder_ about binge eating. There's no reason why Misha would make some shit like that up—but at the same time, Jensen stares at the TV right along with Misha, wondering what the Hell this all means about everything.

"I'm probably being totally offensive and self-centered and an asshole right now, but…" _But this question's been nagging at me since break started and I really need an answer to it, and you seem like you're the only person who might have one, since it's about you, too._ "Are we really all that different? With the weight stuff, I mean? Like, we both have this _drive_ to get our bodies a certain way, don't we? That makes us similar? Even if we want different things?"

"Similar, in a way, but definitely not the same," Misha says, and shakes his head. "And you definitely don't have an eating disorder—at least, not that I've seen with you, anyway. I don't know, I'm not you—do _you_ feel like you're out of control when you eat too much? Do you kick yourself and hate yourself over eating as much as you do? Is there ever a moment where you, like, slip into a trance and can't even tell what you're eating anymore, just that you're eating it and you're so full, it hurts, but you only feel like you still need more, more, more?"

Jensen has to think about that for a moment, lets his jaw fall slack as he mulls it all over—but ultimately, he shakes his head right back at Misha. "That doesn't sound like me at all. That sounds… like Hell, actually. And I mean, sometimes, I'm getting off less on the eating and the food, and more on the ordering about with it, and… I've wound up in subspace before?" _Don't mention Thanksgiving—don't mention Thanksgiving—don't even think about Thanksgiving, just let him think it's all been with Jared._ "But that still doesn't really sound like me. Not even a little bit. All of what I've done… it's been my choice. Not like that."

"That was my relationship with food in a nutshell until I started going to fat camp." Misha says this with the tact of a bullet to the head, back to staring at the TV, giving it this pale, shell-shocked expression, letting his hand go limp in Jensen's—he could be looking at their reflection and seeing the fat little kid he tried to leave behind—that wouldn't surprise Jensen, at any rate, so he squeezes Misha's hand again, just to let him know that he's still here.

"And then it changed," Misha goes on without squeezing Jensen's hand back. "For a little while, I thought about food just as what it is—you know, a tool to keep the body working—but then, that went and changed, too. I think it really came with the accidental realization that my weight might even out somewhere and I still wouldn't be as skinny as I wanted. As skinny as Vicki got to be. And I wasn't so much obsessed with food as I was with hitting that number, then with _staying_ at one-sixty, no matter what I had to do or how much I had to restrict, because that was perfect, so then I got to be perfect, too.

"And then _that_ changed, too, because of that tailspin I went into at the end of sophomore year. Because it turned out that I liked feeling hungry better than I liked any other feeling…" Misha sighs, beats his head back into the cushion hard enough that Jensen just thanks God the cushion's soft. "Because other feelings were either messy or completely absent, and… did you know the body releases endorphins when you starve yourself? Because it does. That's apparently part of why it's so addictive, the whole not eating enough thing. Throw in the rushes I got from working out so much and the way it felt successful to make myself sick and have no one notice… Sum total says that I'm just a fucking mess."

"No, you're not," Jensen tells him, rubbing his thumb over Misha's knuckles. "Okay, yeah, you're kind of a mess right now. And you need help—more help than any of us can give you—me and Shepp and Vicki, I mean… but you're not a _fucking_ mess. And you're definitely not _just_ a fucking mess, okay? You're smart—probably smarter than anybody else I know—and you're funny, and… you're my Misha. You like triple-brewed white tea, and you think you could actually work out how to make a zombie even though science isn't your strongest suit, and you make this face like a kitten when you're frustrated. You have an eating disorder… but it's not all you are, right?"

Misha sighs, slips his hand out of Jensen's, stares intently at his knees. "Sometimes, it feels like that's all I am, Jenny. An eating disorder with legs and classwork and a life and shit."

"Well…" Jensen sighs, drops his hand to the sofa. "If you ever want my help with those times, then… all you have to do is tell me when you feel like that and what I can do to help, okay? Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it. Short of crimes against nature involving DeForrest Kelley, anyway."

Misha nods and Jensen's pretty sure he's feeling his heart bursting out of his chest as Misha tells him, "I could be down for that. Let's do it."

*******

It's a while before they say anything again—Misha needs the time to cool off after so much honesty, and more than that, he needs the time for his New Year's drinking, his last hurrah with alcohol, if that's really what it's going to be. Considering his history with medication and what happens when he isn't on it, he's not sure he has a way out of dealing with pills again—so why not drink like he might never get to drink again. Even if the last drinking game Misha played ended terribly, he suggests playing one anyway, this one to Star Trek instead of to _The Princess Bride_ —but mostly, he and Jensen just end up taking drinks whenever they feel like it.

Well, Misha takes drinks whenever he feels like it—Jensen does get into the liquor with him eventually, but for the most part, he just sips at beers, probably figuring that he'll need to be the mostly sober one. Which isn't an unreasonable assumption, in whole or in the entire, just in light of how fast Misha knocks back his shots or his chasers of lite beer—considering how he doesn't eat that much, when they order dinner, but more idly picks at his grilled chicken Caesar. He doesn't mean to be worrisome—assuming that Jensen's worried—but Misha isn't hungry for anything but alcohol and the chance to get out of his fucking head a little. Even just enough that he could admit—enough for him to say…

"You're the first person I've ever really laid all of the history out for like that," he tells Jensen, burrowing back into into the corner where the sofa's armrest and the cushion meet—and tossing back another shot. "I mean. I came sort of close to that with Mark, but there's a lot he hasn't heard… Mostly, he's heard about all of the current stuff, not the stuff that came before it. And Doctor Rhodes, well, she was there for the original stuff and just needed to get caught up on everything that's happened since I was seeing her on a regular basis. But then, you're just special. You've always been just special."

Jensen blushes bright pink and pulls a face like he's just sucked on a lemon. "I'm really not, though," he says, ducking his chin, making it look even thicker, pudgier than it already does. He's slouched against the sofa's other armrest, legs half-bent, half-stretched out on the seats and starting to tangle up with Misha's. He scratches at the back of his neck, then throws back a long sip of his beer—long enough for Misha to tell him that no, really, he's very special—maybe he doesn't realize it for whatever weird Jensen reason that he has, but he's very, very special. So special Misha doesn't even have words for it sometimes. And that's not just the liquor talking, so don't make this into a _Misha's just being drunk and stupid_ thing.

"Except that I'm really not all that special," Jensen says again, as though reiterating it makes his version of the story any less ridiculous. "I'm just some guy, you know that don't you—I'm just some guy who likes to draw comics."

"Some guy who needs to stop saying that he's not special before I fucking choke him." Misha snaps more than he means to—but then again, he's drunk, so his emotions are allowed to be mercurial. With a sigh, he forces himself up out of the corner, nudges up and around so he's kneeling between Jensen's legs, curling his hands around Jensen's knees to keep himself upright—he's wobbling too much for him to just trust that he won't go toppling over.

He takes a deep breath and a long look at Jensen—a long look at how his face has rounded out, how his chin's outright multiplied since the start of last semester and how his neck's thickened up—Misha trails his eyes down to Jensen's belly, wrapped up snugly (but not too snugly) in his t-shirt, then darts them back up to his face. To Jensen's slight gape and the glimmer that says, _no, really, I have no idea what you're talking about with all of this crap like I'm special_. Misha inches forward on his knees, leans closer to Jensen—there's a _Hallelujah_ chorus blaring in the back of Misha's head, all _shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't, don't, don't, don't, he has a boyfriend, he has a boyfriend, he has a boyfriend_ —but he still leans closer and runs his hands down Jensen's knees, his thighs.

"You're so special, Jenny," he says, each word lingering on his tongue as Misha tries to puzzle and spit them out. Alcohol, unfortunately, makes words even harder than they already are. "Maybe you don't feel like it, but… you never know. You could be the most special person in the world to somebody else. If I'm not allowed to beat myself up anymore, then what about you?"

"I don't beat myself up, though. I just acknowledge that I'm the hero of my own story, but so is everybody else to their stories." Jensen sighs, rolls his eyes in a way that's almost affectionate—the weird sort of, _you are so drunk right now, I can't even handle you_ way that's so dismissive and ridiculous, as though Misha being drunk means he isn't right—and reaches up to ruffle Misha's hair. When Misha huffs, whines at him, all he does is force a smirk. "Seriously, Meesh, there's no way it's unhealthy to have a sense of perspective and be happy with it."

"A sense of perspective could blow your whole head up. It's the last thing a person needs."

Misha nudges closer still as he recites that bit from Douglas Adams. He's at the limit of where he can go without moving Jensen's leg down off the sofa, so he knocks it over, gets even further into Jensen's personal space. One hand rests on top of Jensen's thigh, and the other sits on Jensen's hip, right at the edge of his belly, and they're so close—they've been here before, almost exactly, but just with Jensen on top of Misha, Jensen sitting on Misha's lap and grinding up on Misha—Misha can't help noticing the similarities, noticing how he's hovering over Jensen and how he could just start rubbing up on Jensen's hips, pretty much the same way that Jensen did to him back in September, the only real differences being that Jensen's half on his back and both of them stink like booze. It'd be practically the same thing that happened in September…

God, September feels like forever ago. Misha can't even get his head around all of what's happened—or has that much happened at all—he shouldn't be bringing his hand further up Jensen's side, shouldn't be caressing the soft curve of Jensen's belly, where it dips low around his hip, shouldn't be sinking his fingers into Jensen's flesh, much less thinking that Jensen's gotten so much plusher, so much warmer underneath Misha's hands, or that his lips look so inviting…

Jensen moves, lays his hand over Misha's wrist—Misha jerks back. Yanks both his hands off of Jensen. Starts just babbling apologies as quickly as they come to mind— _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Jenny, please don't be upset, I know I shouldn't have, but I wasn't thinking, I was just, holy fucking shit, I'm so sorry, please don't hate me_ —and before he even knows what's what, Misha's silenced. Before he knows which way is up, Jensen comes after him, sits up and tugs him back into a kiss. And before Misha can really tell what's going on, he's kissing Jensen back. Moving his lips along Jensen's, opening his mouth for Jensen's tongue, sliding his own along Jensen's teeth, sucking on Jensen's lower lip—and Jensen's kissing him. _Jensen's kissing him_.

Jensen's really kissing him—this is happening, and it's Jensen's mouth that slides along Misha's, and Jensen's slightly chapped lips underneath his own—and this is happening. It's real.

So many times, Misha's thought about this, and now that Jensen's actually kissing him, all he feels is cold. Something shivers down his spine and pools in his stomach—starts freezing everything over, wraps around his heart with spikes, makes the hairs on his nape all stand up on end—Misha turns his head and leans further into the kiss, tries to make it all seem right, seem less like something that shouldn't be happening… But there's the lingering taste of beer and tequila in Jensen's mouth, all mixed up with the pizza from earlier and everything screams _shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't, don't, don't, don't_ —Misha gasps as he pulls back, rests his hand on Jensen's shoulder—because he needs to put his hand somewhere or he might fall over.

"I thought I'd want it more," he whispers, still catching his breath—still trying to get his head around what's happening and what's happened and what's going on with his fucking life—still reeling from the taste of Jensen on his tongue. "I'm supposed to… I mean, I'm not supposed to—because there's Jared, and because you're happy, and because you're my _best friend_ …"

Jensen's fingertips brush down Misha's cheek—gently, not that it stops Misha from flinching. Not that it stops his eyes from stinging as they tear up—he shudders, trying to make his breaths come in as deeply, as evenly, as possible, and even though he probably shouldn't, he wilts toward Jensen's hand, leans his cheek toward Jensen's touch—and Jensen still doesn't take his hand away. Just keeps holding Misha's face like he's something precious. Something important—something that Jensen can't afford to lose, or hurt, or any number of things. He curls his other hand around Jensen's wrist—as much as he can, anyway; it's thicker than Misha remembers it being.

"I—Jensen, I'm—I mean, I've been, and for a while, I… I don't even…"

Jensen brushes his thumb down the apple of Misha's cheek. "It's okay. You can say it."

Misha shakes his head, but still manages to spit out, "I _love_ you. And 'm in love with you. I thought for a while, like, maybe I wasn't, but then I think I _am_ , and you just _don't know_ … Not even about the loving you thing, but just that you're so special, and you deserve so much, but I…"

He sighs. Yawns. Curls his arm around Jensen's shoulder—doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to stay upright, but keeps trying. Says, "But I think, like. If anything were gonna happen, I just… I want you to want to be with me because you _want_ me. Not because you want to take care of me. Please don't end up the way that Richard did—I'd rather love you as a friend than get what I want and have you end up hating me."

Jensen mutters that he gets that, but if there's anything else he has to say, Misha doesn't really hear it. All Jensen's words muddle together as Misha slumps against him, and in the end, they drift off on the sofa in a tangled heap, well before midnight, with Misha's head nuzzled up on Jensen's soft belly. He doesn't dream at all—or if he does, he doesn't remember it.

*******

On New Year's Day, Jensen wakes up to find his lap empty and the bathroom door shut—considering everything Misha said last night—especially the parts about making himself sick on purpose—Jensen should probably be more concerned, banging on the door and demanding to know if Misha's okay, at the very least. As Misha's best friend, he needs to make sure Misha's okay—at least, as okay as he can be this early in what Jensen guesses could be called the recovery process—but Jensen doesn't get the chance to bang on the door and start making inquiries about whether or not Misha's fine or not fine or no worries, just in the shower.

Before Jensen can even really think about doing anything, his phone starts buzzing in his hip pocket and playing "Kiss Me"—Jared's ringtone. Jensen fumbles his phone out of his pocket and flops back against the wall as they get the introductory pleasantries out of the way. Jared's okay, a little hungover but nothing too awful—same for Jensen, on both counts—and he did call with a purpose, despite how often they've called each other for no reason other than just wanting to hear the other's voice. (At least, they've done that before, but it's been a little while since they could manage it—they haven't called each other just to talk since they had their argument.)

Which is entirely why Jared's on the line with Jensen now: "I just wanted to apologize?" he says, and he's probably giving Jensen one of his dorky, adorable little smiles, the kind that screams _please, please love me_ , like Jared always gets when he's apologizing. "Because I was a tactless asshole, and then we didn't talk for Christmas—and I guess part of it was that I wanted you to have to deal with your mom without me, which wasn't fair to you, and it wasn't fair on her either, and… how'd it go, Babe?"

Jensen shrugs. Sighs a bit. "Went pretty well, actually. We had a good talk about the weight thing, and… I don't think she really gets it, but she's starting to come around. She gets that she can't meddle in my life, at least."

"That's good," Jared agrees, and Jensen would give anything just to see him. Not because he sounds particularly one way or the other, but just because Jared's his boy—and something hot and sick and guilty gets twisting up in the pit of Jensen's stomach when Jared asks: "So you're back home now, right? Like, your and Misha's apartment home, I mean, not Texas or your parents' home or whatever you wanna call it?"

"Yeah, I am, Meesh and I got back here last night…" How the Hell is Jensen even supposed to bring this up? "Jay, there's… I need to apologize to you, too. For the fight, yeah—because I was kind of an asshole back to you, and you were right, I _was_ being jealous and pissy about not getting to see you sooner… but there's something else that I have to apologize for, too?"

"What do you mean?"

"I just… Misha and I watched Star Trek and got drunk, and… It mostly came out because I was worried about him, but…" Jensen huffs, knocks his head back into the wall. "He was talking about his eating disorder—finally admitting that he has one, _finally_ —and then that turned into how he's working on getting better, and eventually, it all wound up with how he's in love with me—"

"Well, that's not exactly news or anything, Jenny—I mean, shit, he told me about how much he's into you a _long_ time ago. Like, we hadn't even been dating for a full year, that kinda long time ago—he just made me promise not to tell you but if he's telling you himself then I figure—"

"But we _kissed_ each other, Jared. And I _started_ it. And—"

"And you were drunk, and emotions were running high, and… what, am I supposed to be jealous of Misha or upset or something?"

Jensen says nothing, just furrows his brow and blinks at the wall opposite him—not that he expects Jared to be a jealous jackass, but Jensen's pretty sure that _I kissed another guy on New Year's Eve_ isn't supposed to be met with such a warm reception. Especially not one that involves Jared chuckling like he wants to give Jensen an affectionate, if slightly condescending, smile—one of the ones where he ducks his chin and shakes his head. One of the ones that would usually precede some kind of comment about how Jensen is such an art major sometimes (as though that's either news or some definitive statement about Jensen's character).

"Look, Jenny—here's the thing. You and Misha have some kind of relationship that you and I are never going to have _and that's okay_. Your best friend and your boyfriend don't have to be the same person—and the way he's put it to me before? That's kind of a lot to put all on one person. It doesn't mean you love me any less, or that you can't love him, too. You just… love us in different ways, is all."

Jensen supposes that that makes sense. "But I can't help but notice that you're still pretty carefully tiptoeing around the whole kissing issue."

"What do you want me to say about it? Emotions were running high, the tension between you two was probably off the charts, and you two were drunk. You're a caretaker, Jensen—it's what you do for the people you love. Or just care about a whole lot, if you don't want to say love. I'm not going to get bent out of shape because you wanted to help Misha and, in a moment of not being entirely in your own head, didn't know what to do except kissing him."

Sighing, Jensen gently knocks his head back into the wall again. "He _did_ say that he thought he'd want it more than he did, so… it might just be that this was a one-time thing and no worries, it'll never happen again."

"Which is pretty much exactly how I thought it'd go if he ever got around to kissing you. I mean, there aren't exactly scientific studies that say whether or not it's possible to be in love with someone as a friend—I don't even know how you'd conduct an experiment like that—but Misha… I don't know what's going on in his head. Nobody does but him. But sometimes, I think he's got a mix of loves going on for you? Mostly, he's in love with you as a best friend, though. Hence, the utter lack of jealousy on my part."

This, too, makes sense, though Jensen thinks it'd be easier to understand if he were hearing it on the other side of a few ibuprofen—but before he can try to respond to Jared, he's got something more important to handle: the sound of someone vomiting on the other side of the bathroom door. Jensen's flinging it open before he can think to stop himself, before he can even hang up his phone, and he's rewarded with the image of Misha in his boxers and a clean t-shirt, on his knees and throwing up. But his toothbrush is still in the cup by the edge of the sink, and he's not sticking his finger down his throat—and still, the puke just keeps coming.

"Meesh?" Jensen asks when he comes up and gets a calm moment. "Are you okay—okay, I mean, you're probably not, but just… is this hangover puking or eating disorder puking?"

"If it were eating disorder puking, I'd be hiding it better," Misha snaps, huffs, bites on his lower lip. "Speaking of hangovers, though, could you please stop yelling at your phone? Maybe call in some takeout from the diner for breakfast? Because all I want to do today amounts to vegetating in front of the damn TV. Especially after this."

Jensen sighs, manages a small smile as he shuts the door, skulks back out to the kitchen. "Hey, Jay—how about I call you back later, would that work for you?"

"Works for me," Jared says, and his shrug is audible. "My flight's not until tomorrow night, so as long as you call before then, we should be good."


	29. Work In Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha starts making steps in a positive direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used here are: "counseling" and "eating disorders" as a cross-square fill for hc_bingo; and, "breaking the ice" for 100 things (reference prompts).

Waiting outside of Doctor Johnston-Ulrich's office seems to drag on forever—this is silly, the whole business of thinking that it's taking some obscene amount of time for her to finish up with whatever patient she has before Misha. But that still doesn't stop him from checking the clock every few seconds. Jensen sits at his right, occasionally glancing up from his sketchbook to give Misha a pointed look, an arch of his eyebrow as if to ask if Misha's really going to do this now. What the "this" is, he doesn't say, but Misha can guess easily enough. It's not like it's all that hard, or like Jensen's being all that subtle about what's on his mind.

What Jensen means to ask is whether or not Misha's really going to be a stress bucket, a ball of nerves, a skittish Suzy, and otherwise, someone who might be thinking about—no, someone who might be seriously considering—running for the fucking hills.

"Yes," Misha says with a huff, sinking into the sofa and all but outright trying to burrow into it. "I am really going to do this now. I'm just—I am going to bolt for the car and break into it. And if I can't break into it, then I will walk home."

"Dude, you are not gonna walk home." Jensen sighs heavily and rolls his eyes, reaches over to squeeze Misha's wrist. "Home's over five miles away, and if nothing else? I'm not gonna let you do that to yourself."

"Five miles is _nothing_ —I used run way more than that on a daily basis just because…" Misha trails off as he realizes what he's saying and knocks his head back into the sofa's cushion. He wriggles his wrist until he manages to pull it away, until he manages to lace his fingers up with Jensen's. "Because I let my eating disorder control my life and I was convinced that running like that was the only way I could ever be perfect like I wanted."

Jensen squeezes Misha's hand, gives him a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, that's exactly why I'm not going to let you do that to yourself. We're here to work on you not doing things like that or feeling like you have to anymore, remember?"

Misha returns the squeeze, but not gently. Not all that harshly, either, but he does hold onto Jensen's hand until Jensen whines. "Of course I remember why we're here," he says. "It's not like I could ever forget something like that, Jenny. I'm just… it's not as easy as just going, 'I'm going to get better' and having that be that, okay, Jensen? Like, right now, for instance? I'm feeling like I should run because this woman's going to make me talk about things, and admit to stuff, and maybe I want to admit to stuff—maybe I really, really want to do it—but my eating disorder doesn't want me to admit to it. Not to you or anybody. Because it doesn't want to go away—and it kind of has its own built-in survival instincts, okay?"

"And that's entirely why I'm here for you and tolerating you trying to crush my dominant hand instead of going and pitching a fit," Jensen says, and somehow manages to keep smiling at Misha. It's a tiny smile, but it's still a smile—Misha lets up on Jensen's hand, and takes to worrying at his own jeans instead, digging his fingertips up and down his thigh. And with another sigh, Jensen goes on, "There's really nothing here that you should be dealing with on your own, so I'm going to be here for you and help you through and do whatever you need me to do."

"Well, right now?" Misha looks up as the door into the office actually opens up, reveals two people—a middle-aged woman with a short, blonde bob and a girl that Misha knows he's seen around campus before—he thinks she's a freshman, or maybe a sophomore. He sighs and pats Jensen's thigh. "Right now, I just need you to wait for me. And maybe take me somewhere for lunch after I'm done with this."

He's not hungry right now, but he might be when he's done properly meeting Dr. Johnston-Ulrich, and aside from that, it'd be nice to have a grilled chicken salad after putting himself through this.

*******

It's a similar story, two days later, when Misha has to wait outside of his new nutritionist's office for a chance to talk with Doctor Smith—in fact, the only thing that's different is that Vicki comes with Jensen and Misha to this one. Misha asks her to come with because he plans on grabbing lunch after this meeting too, and considering Jensen found him to be an awful handful after his appointment with Doctor Johnston-Ulrich, it seems like it might be courteous to bring someone else along—someone who can take some of the load off of Jensen's shoulders. He deserves a break from having to put up with the ups and downs of this process full-time.

Especially considering that Misha hasn't made any of this any kind of easy yet, and probably won't go doing that any time soon: "He's going to make me keep a food diary," he announces to no one in particular, slouching in his chair and splaying his legs, folding his arms over his chest and knocking his head back into the wall. "Every nutritionist I've ever met has believed in those things—Doctor Smith is going to make me keep one, I just know he is, I just know it."

"Every nutritionist you've ever met is the grand total of Doctor Perkins, a handful of staff members at your fat camp, and that one nurse-practitioner friend of Mom's who worked at Weight Watchers," Vicki points out without looking up from the gossip magazine she's been flipping through, periodically snickering at the hijinks and asking Jensen and Misha what on earth people see in these things. "My point being that you've hardly met a representative sample of all nutritionists ever, but you're still making a bunch of assumptions about what Doctor Smith is going to ask you to do. You're being more than a little bit ridiculous at the moment, brother—don't you think so, Jensen?"

It's not obvious which she's enjoying more: the chance to finally talk honestly about all of what Misha's been through, just making him squirm in general (not least by trying to drag Jensen into the conversation too), or the fact that she can multitask on calling Misha out and reading some feature about some reality TV stars Misha's only vaguely even heard of. But thankfully, all Jensen does is shrug and suppose that yes, Misha's being kind of ridiculous—"But I don't exactly blame him for that, though? I mean, if every nutritionist he's ever met has believed in food diaries, then… experience will tell him that he should expect to end up keeping one with Doctor Smith?"

"Which is exactly my point, and exactly what I take an issue with," Misha says, stares up at the ceiling when Vicki turns her gaze up and gives him a Significant Look. He shrugs—he can't let her sensibility and her reasonableness get to him, not right now. Not when he's quite intent on getting his own ridiculousness out of his system. "I mean, I totally understand the whole point of them—and they've helped me before, so I'm not knocking them by any means, but I just don't really think I should be… Considering how fastidiously keeping track of absolutely everything I ate was one of the things that _triggered_ my _disorder_ in the first place, I can't see how it's going to be a good idea for me to keep track of things now."

He drawls out those two words— _triggered_ and _disorder_ —not because he's trying to be a petulant little shit but just to put most of the emphasis on why he has an issue with everything that's likely or possible to go on with this Doctor Smith guy. On Doctor Johnston-Ulrich's orders, he's not supposed to be keeping track of calories and everything that he scribbled down in journal after journal while he was in the lowest depths of his disorder. He's not supposed to be immersing himself in all of that because it's too easy for him to start fixating and obsessing and making himself get worse instead of better. He's not supposed to be enabling any of his disordered behaviors.

But when Doctor Smith strolls out of his office, that's about all Misha wants to do—not because of anything the Doctor says, or anything about the chubby teenaged girl who comes out in front of him, but just because of the Doctor's appearance. If anyone ever deserved the descriptor, 'beanpole,' it's Doctor Smith. Misha needs a long moment just to realize that he's not actually as tall as Jared, that this is just how thin Doctor Smith is and it's making him look taller. And the first thing that Misha thinks is that he could be that thin, too, except for this pesky recovery business getting in his way. If not for getting himself caught…

Well, if not for getting himself caught, he'd be plenty worse off, which is why he's being an idiot here. Which he guesses he should probably stop—for his own benefit, if for nothing else at all.

And before Misha's properly taken in anything else, Doctor Smith bounds over to where they're sitting, with his hand out toward Jensen. "Hello there, you," he says brightly and, beaming, waits for Jensen to shake his hand. "You must be Misha, my one o'clock? Well, come on in and let's get started, then—you'll find I'm very easygoing and easy to get to know, and—"

"Actually, I'm Misha?" He raises his hand as he says this, and it feels like he's back in freshman comp, asking for his turn to speak. "Yeah, uhm. I'm Misha, he's Jensen, and she's Vicki—they're just here to, erm. Serve as moral support for before and after?"

Doctor Smith blinks at the three of them—and because she's feeling cheeky today, Vicki looks up and waves at him—then, before Misha knows what's hit him, he's getting tugged up to his feet. Rather than shaking hands, Doctor Smith shakes his whole arm—and it's not long before he's getting shepherded into the office, reassured that there's absolutely no shame in needing or wanting a nutritionist, that Doctor Smith is really just here to help him out with everything. Misha might not be the typical patient that he and his office usually see, but whatever it is that Misha needs help with, Doctor Smith will do his level-headed best.

Standing next to him makes it obvious that he's only barely got an inch on Misha, height-wise—and for some reason, it's hard not to feel just the tiniest bit disappointed.

*******

There's one place where Jensen and Vicki can't come with Misha, though, and that's his Eating Disorders Anonymous meeting. Support groups are supposed to be safe spaces, after all, and as much as Misha trembles, walking up the path to the health services building, where the group's supposed to meet? As much as he shivers underneath his heavy black peacoat—from the cold as much as from trepidation—Misha can't let them come with him, can't try to violate the sanctity of the group therapy, can't even think about doing that.

Never mind that—he can't so much as think about doing anything with Jensen and Vicki right now. He can't let himself look back at Jensen's car, still waiting in the student parking lot. Misha can't let himself look back or else he might go running to it and duck into the passenger seat, tell Jensen to get him the fuck out of here, and end up getting dragged into health services by his collar or the crook of his elbow. Which he'd like to avoid, not least because it might be one of the more humiliating experiences in his life. All hypothetically, of course, because it's not going to happen.

But it's probably for the better that Misha remind himself of _why_ it's not going to happen, instead of just trusting that it won't. Because its failure to happen sort of, kind of, really rests on him and him not screwing this up for himself—which is a heavy responsibility, to be sure.

The office smells like lemon-scented cleaner when he opens the door—that stench batters into Misha's nostrils, makes him sigh in relief, though he doesn't entirely know why. Maybe it's because everything's so familiar, so unchanged from how it usually is—maybe Misha's just glad that all the little details that make up everything haven't gone and rearranged themselves because he's changing something so massively for himself. The rest of the world keeps on spinning and keeps going on, and it doesn't even think about reordering itself to accommodate Misha or not—which means he's freed up to change whatever in his life needs changing.

The world goes on, whether Misha's sick or healthy or working on getting to the latter—which means that he doesn't need to worry about anything with whatever broken-headed narcissism that's possessed him to think that his self-saving changes could unseat anything in the grand scheme of things. For a moment, though, Misha still hesitates, still shoves his hands into his coat's pockets and digs his nails into his palms and shuffles around on the linoleum, and still wavers by the doorway, eyeing the receptionist and the magazine that she's so absorbed in reading, wondering if he should interrupt her or not.

Admitting why he's here seems like it ought to be bigger than it ends up being, something more than Misha finally waking up to the receptionist and saying that he's here for the meeting (as though there can be only one, or only one going on right now). He sighs, and she gives him a quiet smile, points him into the same waiting room that people always use. Hanging on the wall, a piece of printer paper points Misha deeper into the building and a series of arrows leads him to a room he's never even seen before, even after being at this school for going on five years. As he gets closer to the end, Misha's heart starts racketing around his chest, bouncing all over and fluttering against his ribs, pounding so hard, he can feel it behind his eyes.

The little plastic sign next to the door labels the room, "Group Therapy 203" and Misha closes his eyes as he drops his hand to the knob—keeps them closed and turned to the floor as he lets himself in—only opens them up when the door clicks shut behind him, once he can't escape.

Opening them up again… Misha wants this to be a unilaterally good or bad thing, but like so many things lately have all turned out to be, opening his eyes and facing the group isn't particularly anything. Misha hovers by the door for a long moment, just blinking at the sea of faces, all sitting on the floor, puffy little pillows—his knees quiver underneath him and he's pretty sure it's from how many people he recognizes or outright knows. There's Kat, of course—Misha knew that she came to these meetings before he even considered coming to them himself, and when the door opens up and just barely misses his shoulder, Misha stumbles over to the pillow next to her, sits down and stares intently at his lap.

It's easier to stare at his lap than to look around the whole room, but he manages that eventually—he recognizes a girl from his section of Dr. Edlund's class, and he recognizes two others he's seen around the dining hall before (both of whom have twigged him as potentially disordered, like he has a fucking Spidey Sense for these things), and he recognizes Alona, who covered for him and Kat when they snuck off for a few study room quickies when they all worked at the library together. He's not the only guy here, either—Misha recognizes Jensen's friend, Tom, who's a five-year senior because he switched majors, and Aldis, who's Jared's friend and old freshman-year roommate. It all sets his head reeling.

For all he'd be content to just sit here in silence until whoever's in charge of this meeting decides to kick everything off, Misha finds that Kat is less inclined to be quiet—very specifically, she has it in mind to talk to him, to say, "Well, color me shocked, because you're someone I never expected to show up here."

"Because you thought, 'oh, there's no way that he has an eating disorder, I'm probably just imagining things'?" Misha half-drawls, scrubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose and forcing himself to take deep breaths. "Or is it more because you thought I'd never wake up and admit it to myself?"

"The latter's more in keeping with what I was thinking about you…" She sighs and pulls her long, blonde hair back off her shoulders, up into a ponytail. "I thought you'd sooner die than admit that you had any kind of issue."

"Yeah, well… you and me both." Admitting this, Misha feels like he could be sick—a chill jolts down his spine and he gets that same feeling that he's betraying somebody important—and he can't manage to keep looking at the group. He has to look back down to his lap. Even when Kat reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, he has to force himself to glance up at her with a wobbly, thankful smile.

He's certain that he won't have anything to say for the entire meeting—that he'll somehow manage to get through without opening his big mouth once—but when one of the therapists comes in, Misha finds out that he has to talk. All new people do, just to introduce themselves to the group—and somehow, he doesn't know how, Misha manages to say:

"Hi, erm. I'm Misha, and I have an eating disorder… We think I had binge-eating disorder when I was a kid, which sort of grew up and turned into ED-NOS, and… I'm still not feeling completely at ease about being here? But my doctors think it'll be good for me, and I think they're probably right, and… I didn't run back to my best friend's car, so I, for one, count that as kind of a huge success?"

*******

Misha's filling out the forms for his semester off when Jensen wanders into the kitchen, heads right for the fridge the way that he always does—and Misha's perfectly content not to talk about anything. He's not even sure what they'd talk about, but Jensen apparently gets something different in his head. He comes up out of the fridge without a snack for himself, then leans on the counter—Misha's watching him out of the corner of his eye, in between rounds of typing up an explanation of why he needs mental health leave for this semester, and it takes him a moment to get that Jensen's staring at him. Once he gets that, though, he sighs, asks if he can help Jensen out in any way.

Jensen shrugs, and huffs, and just says, "Why is there a bunch of sugar-free pudding cups in the fridge? I'm not on some new diet that you forgot to tell me about or something, am I?"

Misha shakes his head and can't help rolling his eyes a little bit, but doesn't look up from his typing. "As though I'd go and force my meal plans and ridiculous body image issues onto you—especially when excuse you, but your body is sickeningly flawless? And apparently, I'm not supposed to call it a, 'diet' anymore because of the negative connotations that word has? I'm on a meal plan—that's really the only thing I'll ever force on you. You're not on a diet; you're on a meal plan—kind of like we're living on campus all over again or something—seems pretty simple enough, yeah?"

He looks up just in time for Jensen to give him a scrunched-up, hopelessly confused face—one that's probably asking what kind of caffeinated space aliens came and abducted Misha. "Okay…" he says, "but that still doesn't answer my question about why there's suddenly a bunch of sugar-free pudding cups all stacked up in the fridge?"

"I made some for you that's not sugar free? It's in the plastic bowl with the pink top—it's chocolate and it's got all the fixings, just the way you like it—mixing in the weight gain powder was a pain in the ass, like always, but for you, I'll—"

" _Misha!_ " Jensen snaps, even though he's halfway to laughing and grinning in a lopsided, ridiculous way. "Why are there a bunch of sugar-free pudding cups all stacked up in the fucking fridge? Answer the question or I swear to God, I'll sit on you—"

"You say that like I wouldn't get off on that—which, okay, it would need to be some pretty specific circumstances for me to get off on it, but there's no reason why—"

"But how about you just focus and tell me why the Hell there are a bunch of sugar-free pudding cups in the fucking fridge, Meesh? It's not that fucking hard, is it?"

Misha shrugs and sighs again. He has to stop typing and look up from his laptop, and when he catches a glimpse of how Jensen's still half-smiling at him—at how Jensen's off-kilter expression just screams, _I'm trying to be frustrated with you right now, stop making it so difficult_ —Misha has to run his hand back through his hair. "It's part of my meal-plan, okay?" he says. "Doctor Smith wants me to have dessert after lunch or dinner every day, and… He said dessert could be anything I wanted—"

"And you didn't pick something more ostensibly not good for you like cookies or ice cream _why_ , exactly?"

"Because I'm still working up to cookies and ice cream, Jenny. And besides…" He pauses and pointedly arches his eyebrow at Jensen. "I happen to know someone named Jensen who would eat the cookies and ice cream faster than I would—and what would I do if I got caught without my dessert because _someone named Jensen_ went and ate it for me?"

Jensen snickers, slouches forward into the countertop, laughing his ass off at Misha—and when he comes back up, all he has to say is, "So you went with sugar-free pudding cups because you could count on me not eating them, is that what I'm supposed to be getting from this conversation here?" He only waits long enough for Misha to say _pretty much_ before asking, "So, while you're in a question-answering mood… what's got you all… jumpy and unfocused and more neurotic than usual?"

"Well, aside from the fact that I'm typing up a painfully honest account of my tailspin last semester for the mental health leave forms? Mostly, I'd say it's that I have a meeting with Edlund tomorrow afternoon, and in that meeting, I have to convince him that I'm not okay, and that he should sign my forms so I can get okay."

At first, Jensen doesn't say anything in response. There's a moment of silence, marred only by the refrigerator door and a drawer opening and closing. Then, he just comes over, and hugs Misha around the shoulders, and sets down one of the pudding cups and a spoon. "You're gonna be fine with Edlund tomorrow," he says. "I promise."


	30. Quiet Admissions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha talks to Genevieve and Edlund.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the original prompt, this chapter uses, "counseling" and "eating disorders" as a cross-square fill for hc_bingo; and, "master" for 100 things (reference prompts).

Misha's appointment with Edlund comes on a Tuesday, first thing in the morning, and as he should've expected, Misha gets to the office long before his professor shows up. It's nothing personal, he knows that—Edlund wouldn't have just forgotten that they had a scheduled sit-down; Misha specifically picked a day he knew Edlund has to be on campus for a faculty meeting, and he was careful to stress the importance of their little session in his email—but as he rocks back and forth at his desk, fussing with the hem of his t-shirt, Misha can't help wondering if this is some kind of mistake. If he shouldn't run back home and just send his boss an email or something, because he just can't do this in-person thing.

He's not allowed to go running back home, though—for one thing, Jensen's waiting in the coffeehouse with enough of their muffins and breakfast pastries for three people. And while Misha can absolutely outrun him if it comes to that—being a former track star up against someone who's still getting used to the extra weight he's added in the past few months—he can't just assume that Jensen would chase him. Jensen might decide to call Misha instead, which would stop him dead in his tracks because that's their new rule: they always answer their phones for each other, no matter what's going on, and if Misha picked up for Jensen after running, it'd probably end with him getting carted back to the office to either wait for Edlund or go in and talk to him about this already.

With a sigh, Misha checks the clock—Edlund still isn't technically late, but that doesn't mean much for Misha's anxiety about… well, everything—and for want of something to do with his hands, he fusses with the hem of his t-shirt. The hem of his brand new, eye-searingly orange Justin Bieber t-shirt, which he has on underneath a brand new navy button-up that Jensen and Vicki swear brings out the blue of his eyes. Which he cares about maybe an inordinate amount all because the whole point of dropping money on these new clothes was to make Misha feel better—the whole point of the assignment was to find clothes he likes and that he feels comfortable in, and then to start wearing them more often, telling himself that as much as he needs to that he's perfectly fine as he is.

Easier said than done, on that count—he can say it until he's hoarse and it still doesn't feel true. Maybe he's expecting too much out of therapy—maybe he wants too much, too soon—maybe he needs to go easier on himself, like so many people have told him. Maybe it's like what they used to say at fat camp, but instead of, "you didn't put the weight on overnight, so you won't lose it overnight," it's more like, "well, Misha, you didn't dig yourself into a hole of relying so much on your eating disorder in a day, so you can't just expect recovery to be as quick and easy as a water-slide." (He wishes that he had a hackey-sack or a stress-ball or something else that he could squeeze or throw around for no reason other than to do so.)

Maybe it's like, "Well, Misha, you didn't get so accustomed to hating yourself all at once, so it's going to take a while to un-learn that kind of vicious negativity." (He really should've brought something more than his coffee with him—not food, because he had a good breakfast and he's not hungry and anxious eating helped get him into this mess of shit in the first place, way back when he was a kid—but he should've brought a notebook, or something to play with. Anything he could go and unleash his nervous energy on, because rocking back and forth in his desk chair isn't really cutting it right now.)

Maybe it's all like, "Well, Misha, you're just going to have to get used to the fact that there's more work to do here than anyone could expect you to do all at once… You can't expect that from yourself, either." (Vaguely, Misha wants to kiss somebody—he's not even particularly fussy about who it is or how much of a kiss they have or whether or not anything else comes out of it. He just wants to kiss someone.)

Misha only realizes that he's mumbling his thoughts about recovery to himself when someone knocks on the door-frame, loudly clears their throat. Blushing, he snaps his head up and blinks for a few moments before he can let out a relieved sigh—it's just Genevieve, slouching against the doorway with one arm folded over her plush stomach and a blended coffee drink (with a mountain of whipped cream and chocolate drizzle) in the other hand. Without thinking about it, Misha asks what she's doing here and she just shrugs, gives him a tired-looking smile. He's not entirely sure how he feels about being on the receiving end of that smile, but at least she ruffles his hair when she comes over and sits down on his desk, dangling her legs over the edge at just the right angle for her to brush her ankle into his knee.

"Well, Misha," she says, snickering, because it's totally clever for her to hang a lampshade on his accidentally loosed thoughts. "You see, my work-study for this semester is with Professor Siege, who isn't here to let me in the office yet. And when I stopped off to get my drink, I ran into Jensen, who told me that you were up here waiting for Edlund?"

Misha shrugs and nods and supposes that he is, for whatever that's worth, since Edlund isn't here yet either, so Misha can't really do that much of anything.

"Well, see, that's kind of the thing," Gen goes on, "because Jensen also mentioned that it's not exactly one of your scheduled work days."

"It's not. I'm waiting for Edlund because we're supposed to be having a meeting." Misha sighs, and can't believe he's about to say this—but at the same time, he's supposed to be working on vocalizing things, and on talking about his problems with the people he cares about, so in the interests of his own recovery, he tacks on, "We're meeting because I kind of need him to sign some forms for me? Like, so I can take the semester off on mental health leave."

"Jensen did not mention that—he just said that he couldn't tell me why you were here because it wasn't his place to go blabbing about it for you." Gen huffs and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, takes a long sip out of her drink. "Do you want to talk about it, or should I, like, back off?"

"No, it's okay… I don't want to talk about it, but I don't want to _not_ talk about it, and I'm supposed to be working at getting better at talking about it, so…" He shrugs and leans his chair back again. "I need Edlund to sign my mental health leave forms so I can take time to deal with my perfect, storming cluster-fuck of depression, anxiety, and an eating disorder—with the big thing to work on being that last one, considering… they can medicate me for the other ones, but I've been actively not dealing with the eating disorder and outright denying its existence since I was… I don't even know how young? Probably thirteen. Thirteen's a good place to put it, I guess."

"That… well, if you don't mind me saying so, it explains a lot about you that I never wanted to ask after, in case it was pushing you too much." Gen takes another slurping sip off her drink—if Misha didn't like her so much, the noise might start getting on his nerves. "So, what, did your weight crash out and everyone thought you couldn't have an eating disorder because you were a boy and you believed them about it for… whatever reasons you want?"

"Oh, no, God no—I wish it were as clean-cut as getting over that misogynistic, 'boys don't get eating disorders' bullshit." Carding his hand back through his hair, he crosses one leg over the other—mostly just to remind himself that his thigh-gap's still there, and that his legs aren't emaciated, but are a healthy set of runner's legs. They've done right by Misha so many times, and they'll keep doing right by him if he just treats them right and sticks to his meal plan, sticks to working out enough but not too much (he gets half-an-hour to an hour every day, and makes a mental note to talk to Danneel, ask her if she's in the market for a gym buddy, so someone will be able to hold him to task on not going over the edge).

"It's more like… I binged my way up to three-hundred-fifty pounds so my parents sent me to fat camp—which actually would have been a perfectly fine course of action… except that I made it infinitely more complicated, and what started out as healthier habits became my obsession, and ultimately became an eating disorder. One that's more recognizable than binge-eating disorder, I mean. Not that ED-NOS gets as much attention as anorexia and bulimia, but anyway…"

Misha shrugs, tries to give Genevieve and her wide-eyed, brow-knotted concern a smile. He probably fails, just judging from how much he feels his mouth wobbling in the process. "And in case you want to ask, I'm… well. I guess I can't really say that I'm a hundred-percent okay right now, but I'm doing better than I have been in a while? The mental health leave is just… I need time to really work on everything without also having to worry about school stress and grading papers and my purported research and all of that happy, fun stuff?"

Genevieve opens her mouth to say something—but before she can, there's another noise of someone clearing their throat, and Misha feels all the color start draining from his face. Even before he sees Edlund's untamed mess of black curls, he gets a shiver coursing up his spine—and he gets another when Edlund just asks Misha to step into his parlor, motions for him to come into the office. With a heavy sigh, he forces himself up, picks his folder with the papers up off the desk, and just as he's about to shut the office door behind him, Genevieve pipes up:

"Hey, Misha. Just so you know? Whatever happens? I'm proud of you, Pretty Boy."

And for all it doesn't entirely calm his stomach—for all it doesn't entirely set his nerves at ease—that little statement makes Misha smile enough to think that everything just might end up all right.

*******

As soon as the door shuts behind him, the first words out of Misha's mouth are, "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough of it. Most of it. Well—all of it, really, from about why you need me to sign your mental health leave forms and then forward." Edlund tries to smile at him as he motions for Misha to come sit down, but it comes out looking wonky, forced and tight and not entirely friendly—it's more like the edge of a knife than anything else.

Not that this stops Misha from sitting down—because, well, it'd be impolite not to—and never mind that why would he want to stand while having this conversation? There's no good reason for it that he can see. Either way, he'd end up in a position opposite his boss and his advisor, trying to force himself into meeting Edlund's inscrutable eyes, feeling like he's under the fucking microscope and squirming guiltily because he can't imagine what he could say to explain away how Edlund heard him telling Genevieve everything that he should've been saying in this meeting instead. Or what he could say to help ease along the thought process Edlund might be going through right now, revising his whole opinion and perception of Misha.

Misha swallows thickly—he hopes that Edlund's entire opinion of him hasn't just been shattered quite like that because he likes to hope that Edlund's opinion of him is as high as Misha's grades in his courses have always been—and he slides the folder across Edlund's desk with a soft huff. He watches in silence as Edlund picks up the folder, surveys the forms, starts flipping through Misha's typed up essay about everything that was wrong with him last semester and everything that's still pretty wrong with him now. And when he gets an idea for something to say—something to ease how nerve-scrapingly quiet everything is between them—it feels so thick and insufficient and too easy to be any good, to be worth anything notable at all.

"I was going to tell you all of that—everything you heard me saying and everything that's in the papers—I was going to tell you anyway?" he says, staring intently at Edlund's desk, squirming, and feeling about two inches tall. "Not like in a… complaining about my bullshit problems for sympathy sort of way, but just because I really need to take this semester off? …Which I guess constitutes complaining about my bullshit problems for sympathy, depending on your outlook on things, but I have a couple friends, a mental health professional, and a sister who would disagree with me saying anything of the kind, so there's that."

"Well, they'd be completely in the right to disagree with you—you know that, right?" Edlund only pauses long enough for Misha to look up from the desk—and his heart almost stops dead when he sees that Edlund's giving him a calm smile. "Nothing I'm reading in here—nothing that I overheard between you and Genevieve—Misha… none of that is what I'd call a, 'bullshit problem.' On the contrary, it's all very serious."

"And see, that's the kick of the whole thing? Because I know that it's serious—well, I know that in theory anyway—but I still… I still have to tell myself that it's serious, sometimes? I have to remind myself that I don't have to talk myself down all the time…"

"You know, considering everything you wrote in here, I'd say that it's some kind of miracle you seemed as on top of things as you did last semester." Edlund sighs and blinks at Misha like a curious owl. "Not that you seemed entirely on top of things—it was obvious when we got winding down that you weren't as okay as you wanted everyone to think, but you handled everything surprisingly well for crashing out as badly as you did."

"Yeah, well, it gets… not pretty easy, but okay enough to go forward—to drag yourself out of bed and go to class and whatever else you need to do—when you emotionally berate yourself into doing everything. I'm not saying it's a good way to live—I wouldn't recommend it—but it works enough for what you need it to do. Until you can't possibly hate yourself any more and you end up trying not to cry or make yourself throw up."

"This might seem like an out-of-left-field sort of question, but… Have you given any thought to proposing a creative thesis?"

 _Out of left field_ , Misha's certain, must be the biggest understatement he's ever heard out of Edlund's mouth—maybe the biggest understatement that Misha's heard today, and that includes all the ones that he throws out there himself. But all he does is swallow thickly and shake his head. "I've… I've been thinking a lot about what to propose—and mostly I've just been having trouble coming up with an idea that I didn't hate, or that I didn't think was stupid. I didn't really get to the whole business of creative or research or whatever because—I mean, I kinda haven't been able to think about much of anything, really?"

Edlund pulls out that little smile again—the easy one that's tiny and impossible to read. "Well, I think you've already got a great story right here," he says. "Have you thought about trying to tell it all the way?"


	31. Reading Into Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are conversations and Misha might or might not be seeing things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the original prompt, this chapter uses, "accusation" for 100 things (random prompts).

Misha's not sure if it's easier or harder than he expected, getting used to his new rules for going out on runs. He's not banned from going on them, period, which is better than he expected—but on the other hand, it's so easy, once he gets into the right head-space, to just ignore the fact that he's only supposed to stay out for forty-five minutes, tops. And given his history of deliberately, or accidentally, missing it when his timer goes off, there's every reason for someone to worry about Misha's runs. He would worry about himself, if he were Vicki, Jensen, Mark, or anybody else.

Still and all, he does get better about this point. He gets better about not pushing himself until he wants to pass out, and he gets better about knowing when enough is enough. He gets better at running like someone who's never used exercise as a way to purge. In between that and learning just how much daytime programs well and truly suck, Misha almost gets to the point of missing classes and doing Dr. Edlund's work—and that's just in the first week of his so-called leave. The next week's even harder, and for a moment, he thinks he might actually be getting emotionally invested in _The Young and The Restless_ , with no idea what he'd do if that were the case.

All things considered, he'd probably have to beat his head against a sharp corner, just to see if that would make him act like himself again. To which Jensen says that Misha's just being patently ridiculous, and kind of a dick on top of it. And not in a way that's endearing or adorable or anything like that.

"I'm always kind of a dick, though," Misha points out, curling up on his side and burrowing into the sofa cushions and one of the throw pillows. "So it's not like that's exactly new or anything. Besides, it's part of why you love me, right?"

"When it's the right kind of you being a dick, sure," Jensen says, boxing up the leftovers from dinner—two sets of stuffed pasta shells; one heavy on the vegetables for Misha, and one heavy on the meat, cheese, and butter for Jensen—and very liberally picking at them as he works. "When it's you just pointlessly being an asshole about daytime TV and people who like it, though… I don't know. Are you feeling okay? Need to talk about something to someone who isn't a therapist or your support group, maybe?"

"Yeah, because we know too well that I project my issues into everything and try to cover them up by being a dick, so if I'm pointlessly being an asshole, the only possible explanation is that I'm not feeling well." Misha sighs and rolls over onto his back, drops both hands to his stomach and worries his fingers over his little bit of pudge. "My mom's coming down for a visit around Valentine's Day," he says, blinking at the ceiling. "She's gonna stay in Danneel and Vicki's guest room, since we don't have space for her. And it's not really that I don't feel well about it—it's more that I'm worrying about whether or not Mom's really learned anything from this whole mess of shit I'm in?"

Jensen sighs, and probably blinks at Misha for the long, quiet moment that passes between them. Probably because it's still slightly unnerving for both of them—Misha being as bluntly honest as he has been since starting therapy, as often as he manages it. But eventually, Jensen says, "Like, how do you mean? Like, are you afraid she's still gonna harass you about how much you weigh, or whether or not you fit into her idea of acceptable, or whatever?"

Misha shakes his head, inasmuch as he can with the pillow behind his head. "I think we're mostly past that particular piece of bullshit from her. Mostly. I mean. Now that you bring it up, I can't really be sure she _won't_ do that to me—but I'm taking it on good faith that she won't, considering everything? I just…" He pauses and sits up, rakes his hand back through his hair. It takes him a moment of slouching and pouting at Jensen to say, "I just worry about her, y'know… Thinking I'm not getting fixed quickly enough, or wondering why she's putting so much money into therapy if it's not fixing me right now, or… something like that. You know what I mean?"

"Kind of yes, but also kind of no?" Jensen shrugs, shakes his head, and puts the plastic containers with the leftovers into the fridge. Again, he goes quiet, but eventually, he wanders back over from the kitchen, flops onto the sofa, and lets Misha curl up against his side. "I just mean," he picks up where he left off. "I get what you're saying, but I really, really want to hope that your mom isn't going to do that to you right now."

"I really, really want to hope for that, too, Jenny—but considering that her opinions and her behavior and everything are a pretty big reason why we wound up here in the first place? Or at least, considering how she didn't exactly make anything any better for me? I think I've got pretty good reason to be afraid that she's not going to handle things well if I'm not…" Misha trails off and swallows thickly. Huffs a bit. "If I'm not, like, perfectly healed to her exact specifications."

"Well, you know what I think?" Jensen pauses and waits for Misha to suppose that he has no idea what Jensen thinks. "I think that you need to get out of your head a little bit—"

"But part of recovery is learning to stay in my own head instead of running away, and I mean—"

"No, no, I don't mean it like that, Meesh. I mean it more like… you need to give yourself a break. And she's not coming until Valentine's Day, right? So why don't we do something fun this weekend? I kinda have to go to the mall anyway—"

"Why do _you_ have to go to the mall? You know I can make food that's better for you than the food court can any day, right?" If they were any other set of friends, that might sound pretty terrible. Hell, maybe it still does. But Jensen hates going to the mall for anything _but_ the food court, so Misha's pretty sure that he's well within his rights, as best friend, to ask why Jensen _kinda has_ to go to the mall.

Fortunately, all Jensen does in response to this admonition is flick Misha in the shoulder and chuckle affectionately. "I need new pants, smart-ass," he says. "All of mine are getting pretty close to busting off before I've even had breakfast—"

"You say that like it'd be a _bad_ thing…"

As though anything so wonderful could possibly be bad. Misha sighs and drops his head onto Jensen's shoulder, lets his eyes slip closed and a besotted smile spill over his face as he entertains thoughts that he probably really shouldn't. Thoughts like Jensen bursting his button off at work and needing to safety pin his jeans closed just so he can get home. Like Jensen's bloated belly surging out into his lap and pushing the flaps of his fly so far apart that there's no hope of ever getting them done up again, even if he does them up underneath his stomach's lower curve. Like Jensen ripping buttons off of all his sinfully tight work shirts, and…

"Hey! Earth to Misha, come in Misha!" Jensen's grinning at him when Misha snaps his head back up, but that doesn't stop Misha from blushing. At least Jensen has it in him to snicker about that, too. "God, you're so predictable sometimes. It's adorable."

"Well, my point still stands: you say that you'd bust your pants like it's a bad thing, instead of something unreasonably attractive that you know your boyfriend would definitely love to see as well."

"Yeah, well, no offense to you or to my boyfriend, but it kind of will be a bad thing when I don't have any pants I can wear to work because they're all too tight for my fat ass."

"Point taken. I suppose we know what we're doing on Saturday now, at least?" Which might not be the best thing ever, but it's some kind of grounding, and Misha appreciates it on that count alone.

*******

Heading to the mall on Saturday proves to be more of a necessity than Misha reckoned it would be. The simple fact of the matter is that, before they head out, before Misha even gets to making breakfast, Jensen weighs in at two-hundred and eighty pounds, and his waist clocks in at just under forty-nine inches.

Now that Misha actually takes note of it all, he can see why Jensen's complaining so much about his clothes, about how he hasn't gotten new ones since before Christmas: while his t-shirts are still mostly comfortable on him, the buttons on his work shirts strain to hold him in, and all the ones he tries on for Misha are too tight for him, especially about the middle.

On top of that, watching him try to wriggle into his pants—watching him suck in with all his might only to give up and button them underneath the swell of his stomach, with his belly sagging over the waistband—leaves Misha's mouth dry and hanging open. It's better than porn, but it can't be very good, much less comfortable, for Jensen. Misha can only imagine how close he has to be to popping his buttons on a semi-regular basis.

So, with that necessity in mind, he and Misha pile into the car and head for the big-and-tall mens' store, which sits halfway between the food court and the Macy's. Even so soon after breakfast, Jensen takes deep breaths as they walk past the former—he's so adorably predictable when they're within the vicinity of food, but there's no sense in wasting over an hour here when they don't have to do that. Any unnecessary time spent at the mall is time spent badly, if Misha does say so himself.

With the promise to take him to the Häagen-Dazs stall once they're done getting him some clothes that fit, Misha drags Jensen away from the food court by the crook of his elbow. It's mostly in jest, and he can't help laughing at Jensen as he does it, but really, they have one job to do here, and they're getting that done before they make any attempts at doing something else.

"I just don't get why you can't bring me clothes that actually fit me," Jensen says from behind the changing room door, some twenty minutes into trying on different pairs of jeans. "Instead of, y'know, clothes that only _kind of_ fit."

Slouching against the wall, Misha rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. "That last pair _did_ fit you, you big baby."

"They only fit in the technical sense that I could get them on my body, Misha."

"And that's my fault why? I was guessing. Obviously, I guessed wrong. It's been known to happen on occasion."

"You know what I think?" Jensen says with a huff. "I think you're guessing wrong on purpose because you just like seeing me model for you in tight clothes."

"So what if I do? I hate being at the mall—why would I keep us here any longer than we have to be?" It's a convincing lie. Misha knows this because he cooked it up special, just in case Jensen started questioning him on this matter. They should only be here as long as is necessary. And unfortunately for Jensen, it's absolutely necessary for Misha that they try out all of Jensen's sizing options.

It's only in the food court, some four pairs of jeans and six new shirts later, that Misha regrets dilly-dallying and making Jensen try on everything. Jensen's engrossed in his massive sundae, so he doesn't notice anything—but when Misha looks up from his phone, he could swear that he sees Richard on the other side of the food court, standing in a line over by the Panda Express. His heart flutters, then wilts into his stomach, sinks like an anvil—it can't be Richard, and Misha knows so much better than to think it is. But it looks just like him. But it can't be him. There's no way.

He blinks at the guy who looks like Richard for a long moment, squints at him as though this might make his appearance makes more sense. It's too far away for Misha to be sure of anything, but as he settles back into his seat, he sighs and tells himself that he must be imagining things. Besides, there are plenty of slightly chubby-looking guys with sharp noses and golden-brown hair out there in the world. It just can't be Richard. It just can't be.

*******

"Okay, so, like… can we maybe talk about something?" Misha's stomach writhes and twists itself up in knots, just thinking about bringing up this whole, 'maybe we should collaborate on a graphic novella' topic—because what if Jensen says no, and what if Jensen has better things to do, and of course Jensen would say that Misha can tell him anything, when he has no idea what Misha's going to say. And all of that's just the beginning of why Misha can't make his insides settle down tonight.

After hitting the mall and finding Jensen some fucking jeans that fit, Misha does his best to shake what he thinks he saw out of his mind. There's no way that he's doing anything but hallucinating, after all. He's bored and he's making things up to make his life more interesting, because recovering from an eating disorder—going to therapy, going to a support group, spilling his guts in ways he never thought he could—just isn't eventful enough for him.

Because he's a freak who really does need less excitement in his life, but accepting that fact is hard, so he projects his issues onto some random passerby who happened to vaguely resemble the ex-boyfriend he still isn't really over in any kind of functional way.

It doesn't really help matters any that he's decided to finally tell Jensen about a notion he's had—one that involves Edlund's, "why don't you write something about your eating disorder for a thesis project" idea and getting Jensen involved in it. Unfortunately for everyone—at least, unfortunately as far as Misha can see—Richard and their break-up were so deeply twined into the events of That Summer that Misha can't help thinking about him. He can't help looking around the restaurant and thinking that this person up at the buffet looks like Richard, or that this other guy sitting a few tables away could be Richard's long-lost twin brother. Never even mind how the second guy is eating with someone who looks like Mark.

But at least Misha manages to get through the explanation without giving in to the anxiety gnawing at the inside of his stomach, without bolting to the bathroom to hide in the stall if not make himself sick because the chicken on his salad is fried and breaded instead of grilled, and because forced honesty makes that fact even more uncomfortable than it would be otherwise.

After two full weeks of keeping it to himself, he finally gets through telling Jensen and Vicki all about what might turn into his thesis, and he finds it… somewhat easier to divulge than he thought it would be. After all the build-up he's put himself through, all the worrying about what they'd think and what they'd have to say about it, Misha only finds himself confronted with his sister and his best friend looking at him with some unspoken _is that it, or do you have something more to say about this_.

Misha shrugs, huffs, and shakes his head. "So, like… what do you think? I mean… I need an artist, you need more things to go in your portfolio, and if it's too much, you wouldn't have to illustrate the whole thing? It could just be a few segments of it, or a couple of scenes, or whatever works best for you."

"I'm not thinking about what does and doesn't work best for me in this situation," Jensen says, stabbing his fork at the lasagna he got off the buffet earlier. When he looks back up, his expression is so heart-wrenchingly earnest that Misha feels like he's just drop-kicked a puppy into traffic. "All I'm thinking about here? Is you."

"What about me? I need a thesis, this is actually a pretty good idea for one, and Doctor Johnston-Ulrich thinks it could be good for me to get everything out there—"

"But, like… can we please remember what the whole thesis process entails? The whole part where you're going to write something so personal and then subject it to these people's judgment, and they have a major say in whether or not you get your degree?" Jensen sighs. Shakes his head a little bit. "I just worry about whether or not you're really ready to subject yourself to that kind of mess, okay?"

"Well, he wouldn't be subjecting himself to the review process for at least another year-and-a-half," Vicki points out, then pointedly arches her eyebrow at Misha. "Which isn't to say that Jensen doesn't have a point. Personally, I would worry more about your tendency to embellish and revise the story instead of being honest about it—"

"Well, I'd be honest about how I remember it all happening, and, like… that's still a pretty big improvement for me, right?" Couching this as a question is merely a technical formality—something that Misha owes Jensen and Vicki because he doesn't want to be a dick and just dismiss any potentially dissenting opinions outright. But, really, it's not a question from where he's sitting; it's just a simple fact that being honest about his own memories and how he ends up framing them is a pretty huge step forward. At least it acknowledges that his perception is an issue.

"I don't deny that, for you, this is a big deal and a considerable step on the whole, 'road to recovery' thing," she says, giving him that Significant Look that, for all he can't really decipher it, Misha knows is trying to drive some kind of point home. "I just worry about how you've seen things. And how you see things now. And the whole evolution of you seeing things… I'm just worrying about you and whether or not you'll mess with your own head by writing this thing."

Misha thinks about it for a moment, then slouches in his chair. "Fair enough," he says. "You've definitely got a point about that—I mean, if anybody ever messes with my head, the number one head-messer is definitely me, but… I don't know? I really like the thought of writing this thing and I kind of feel like I need to write it, y'know? Like, writing it would help me sort out some things and be more helpful for my recovery than not?"

"Well, I can't exactly say that I'm still a hundred percent about this," Jensen chimes in, "but if it's gonna help you, then I'm more in favor of it than not. And I'm in to help you with pictures, wherever you want me to help with that."

Misha smiles a bit, then excuses himself—even if the chicken strips on what's left of his first salad are fried, he's hungry for something else off of the buffet.

*******

At least, he's hungry for something else until he's actually at the buffet. Until he actually has to stare down the food and wonder which parts of it would work best with his meal plan, which options might betray him in the long run—no. Misha huffs and shakes his head as though that will actually banish the thought.

Because the food's not going to betray him—it won't do that because food isn't sentient, and it's value-neutral. 'Good food' and 'bad food' are lies that his disorder told him in order to control him better, and he doesn't have to buy into them anymore because they're wrong. Because he's going to get better this time, not just hang a painting over the hole in his wall as though that makes everything okay.

Not that any of this makes picking out toppings for his next helping of salad any easier, but Misha still manages to make it something other than the crisp lettuce and a few celery sticks.

He picks out things Doctor Smith would approve of, and tells himself each time that he still feels hungry, so it's okay to eat something. Grilled chicken, this time, because it's finally out—chopped up hardboiled eggs because the protein's good for him to have around—cucumbers and cherry tomatoes, shaved carrots and a little side-cup of balsamic vinaigrette because, regardless of where the habit got started (fat camp, during Misha's first year there), he prefers to dip his salad in the dressing, rather than just dump it all on and hope that he gets the best taste possible.

It's just a matter of preference, he's pretty sure. Could it be something else? Maybe—but for all his other habits and preferences that are related to his eating disorder, Misha's fairly certain that this one isn't.

He's rounding away from the end of the salad bar when he hears Mark's voice behind him: "Misha, Misha, Misha—could I borrow just a moment of your time?"

Misha closes his eyes and silently counts to ten before turning around, putting on the best smile that he can force, considering the circumstances. Considering the way he and Mark haven't actually spoken to each other since before Christmas. Considering the part where Mark's been seeing Richard behind everyone's backs and—"Yeah, I guess I've got a moment for you. You have a good break?"

Mark shrugs. "It was uneventful, beyond making someone want to punch me in the mouth. Which he very nearly made good on, I might add."

"I kind of can't believe that doesn't happen to you every Christmas, though. No offense."

"None taken—are you still upset with me?" He says this in his standard, flippant drawl—as if to demean the way that Misha stormed out on him, as if to really say something to the tune of, _you know, you shouldn't be upset with me, I didn't do anything wrong_ —but there's something off about the smirk Mark tries to put on along with his question. It's too wobbly, too faded, to really be the smirk of a guy who doesn't think he did anything wrong.

Misha huffs and starts wandering back in the direction of the table, just trusting that Mark will follow him. "Kind of yes and kind of no?" he says. "I guess you've probably heard that I'm in therapy by now?"

"It did manage to get to me through the grapevine, yes. Genevieve and Vicki both pointed it out—and both of them said it under the assumption that I already knew about it." Mark arches an eyebrow at Misha and snakes an arm around his shoulders, directs him in the exact opposite direction of the table. Misha could argue, he guesses, but that might involve causing a scene in the middle of a restaurant he rather likes. And having done that with Mark once before, Misha has no desire to revisit that scenario.

"So I suppose you have some wonderful story for me about how your therapist is helping you work out the anger you feel towards me over what I did?" Mark says, still going for flippant and falling flat instead.

"She isn't, actually. Because we haven't really covered it yet. Just hasn't come up. And my psychiatrist and I mostly talk about how meds are working out—or, well, how meds might work out, since I'm not actually on anything, yet, but… same difference, ultimately, since there's no way I can see where I'm not going to end up on something." Considering how badly he's crashed and burned before—considering all the symptoms of this most recent tailspin—it's just written in the stars, at this point. And Misha's okay with that, even if he has to remind himself of this constantly.

He smirks at Mark, or tries to, anyway. "If it helps your ego any, my support group mostly took my side, but said they could understand your whole, 'trying to protect me from the truth' sort of attitude about the whole thing. None of them really _liked_ it, but they could understand."

"Well, what if I told you that I have someone with me who rather wants to see you again—and that I hope this will start allowing us to patch things up between us?"

 _But it can't be, can it, no, no, of course it can't_ , is Misha's first thought, and his only one—he swallows thickly, gets a shiver coursing down his spine—and before he knows which way is up, they're at another table. He's gaping, fish-mouthed, and staring down at a gleaming pair of hazel eyes, at a face that's changed since he last saw him but is still so immediately recognizable. His heart pounds and claws against his chest and his lungs as a still-familiar Tennessee drawl says, _Hey, Misha_ , as Mark pats him on the shoulder and says, _Well, I'll just leave you two alone for a little while then, shall I?_

Misha blinks. Tries to sigh and shudders instead. Licks his lips and can't even think of managing to sit down—his heart drops into his stomach as he manages to spit out, "Richard. I—I mean. …Hi."


	32. It's A Question Of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jensen trusts Misha. Totally. There are absolutely no trust issues here whatsoever. None.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the original prompt, this chapter uses, "jealousy" for ~52_challenge, and "objective" for 100 prompts.

When Misha gets up to go to the buffet again, Jensen knows he's really going to the salad bar, but doesn't make a stink out of anything for two reasons: one, Misha's been putting more than wilted lettuce on his salads lately, so it's not like he isn't eating; and two, not everybody eats like Jensen does, not everybody wants to be as big as Jensen does, and all of that's okay. When Mark comes back to the table instead of Misha, though, Jensen gets half a mind to throw some kind of tantrum over where the Hell his best friend's gotten off to now. Especially when Mark says he's talking to Richard.

"There's nothing that needs tantrum-throwing about," Mark says, rapping on a whole hardboiled egg with his fork. "All I did was run into Misha at the salad bar and take him over to my table for a conversation with someone who wants to see him. I could've stayed to help facilitate the dialogue, but considering everything, I thought my presence might be more of a detriment to them talking openly and honestly. Like civilized adults who don't both slightly want to kill me for myriad reasons. Besides, Richard's moving back here for graduate school, they'll probably run into each other… It's best for everyone if we just get over the myriad reasons why they might both want my head on a platter."

"Myriad reasons like how you just failed to tell either of them the truth about the other for literal years, hmm? Myriad reasons like those, or is there something else you've done that I'm missing in my assessment? Or maybe myriad reasons like how my brother's recovery is pretty serious business and you're being kind of entirely yourself—which is to say, a flippant dick—about reintroducing Richard to the already pretty complicated equation?" Vicki points this out so Jensen doesn't have to—and thank God for her doing that, because at the moment Jensen's not sure he could open his mouth without just telling Mark, in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off.

He really wants to punch the bastard when all he does in response to Vicki calling him on his total bullshit is shrug and suppose that she has a point, yes. "But you see," he says, "Richard and I have actually talked about things in light of how Misha's in therapy, and… yes, maybe I sprung this on _Misha_ without any advance warning or indication of what I was planning to do, but I, for one, think that this could be very good for him. Not in the sense of, 'maybe both of them are still interested in each other'—which, for the record, they are—but in the sense that he needs to get some closure on that unfortunate incident before he can really move forward, and—"

"That _unfortunate incident_ that was just Misha getting himself to fifteen pounds away from an anorexia diagnosis?" Vicki snaps. She's put her fork down and folded her hands in front of her, and just judging from how strained her knuckles look, she's trying her damnedest not to reach over and slam Mark's face into the table. Which Jensen doesn't think he'd mind seeing, right now. "There's nothing wrong with thinking that he needs to get some closure, Mark. There's nothing wrong with helping him to get that closure in your little play-therapy sessions. But this? This is a whole different sort of mess you're getting him into, and doing it while he's still so fragile—"

"Is he really, though? Is he really as fragile as you seem to think? Might it not be the case that he's actually much more resilient than you're thinking, and that you're being not just presumptuous, but rather condescending about his mental health at the moment?" Mark arches his eyebrows and shrugs as though he's not suggesting something to the tune of, _No, really, Misha might be more okay than he's letting on, because that's something that sounds like the Misha we all know, like that completely sounds like him and something he would do_.

Vicki considers everything for a moment, takes a long sip of her Coke, and says, "Even if he isn't as fragile as I think he is, do you really want to take a risk right now? He's in a place where he's getting to trust more people again, and where he acknowledges that the way he tries to cope with things isn't good for him, and where he's finally starting to open up more about whatever all goes on inside that wormy head of his—"

"And I completely understand your concerns—in fact, I think they're very sweet, would that everyone with an eating disorder had a sister who cares about them as much as you do your brother…" Mark pauses, looks to Jensen as though asking for some backup on this issue—like Jensen would back him up on this issue—and after a moment, he just sighs. "But all I'm saying here is that we don't want to risk patronizing him, either, or treating him like some kind of porcelain doll. He's not exactly likely to take that very well, and I wouldn't blame him for getting upset about it, either. Just because he's recovering doesn't mean that he needs to be condescended to, you know."

"No one's talking about condescending to him, though. We're just talking about making sure that his recovery continues to go well—and, let's remember, that is a very _delicate_ process before we go making any snap judgments? Well, I guess it's too late for that, since you already decided that reintroducing Richard to the equation was in Misha's best interests, without talking to anybody else about your great idea, much less talking to Misha about it. Not that this is entirely surprising behavior out of you, but my point remains…" Rolling her eyes, Vicki huffs and decides that it's her turn to turn her eyes to Jensen, to give him a Look that suggests he'd better back her up on this or she'll shove his balls down his throat.

Jensen just sighs, and puts his fork down. This whole stupid mess is souring his appetite, and making him feel a little nauseated, besides. "I just," he starts, then realizes that he just has no idea what he really wants to say. Time to throw caution to the wind, then. "I guess I can see both of your points here? And, like, I'm not exactly on Team Richard or anything—not that I'm on Team Anti-Richard, either, but I just… I think it's probably okay for them to talk to each other? Especially if Richard's moving back here anyway, I mean… like Mark said, they're probably going to run into each other, and I don't think it's really good for Misha to be constantly stressed out about whether or not he can have the smallest conversation with the guy."

He has to pause now. Pause, and take a long sip of his Coke, and comb his fingers back through his hair, then drop both hands under the table so he can worry at the underside of his sizable paunch. It settles his nerves a little—gets them to calm down just enough for him to go on and say, "See, the thing that I'd be most worried about here? Is whether or not they want to try getting back into a relationship with each other. Because Richard already cut and run once, and that fucked Misha up pretty awful, I think we can all remember—"

"Which," Mark says, "I might add wasn't exactly his fault. There were extenuating circumstances involving his asshole father, and various family emergencies, and things of a—"

"And I don't really give a shit, okay?" Jensen's heart sinks a little, saying that—it's not like Richard's really some terrible guy or anything; Jensen probably should care about his extenuating circumstances, at least on some level—"But it's not a matter of me caring about whatever happened with his family or not, right? Because it's not ultimately a matter of what I think, or what I want, or any of that… It's a matter of what Misha thinks, and what Misha wants… and kind of what Richard wants, too, but since he's not recovering from an eating disorder, it's harder to care about him."

For once in his life, Mark has nothing to say—no quip, no jibe, nothing to throw out there like a frisbee—but after a moment of blinking at Jensen, Vicki manages to say, "Do you really think that Misha would jump right back into a relationship with him after everything that happened? And be honest, Jensen, or so help me—"

"You don't have to threaten me, I swear." Jensen picks his fork back up and idly prods his food around his plate. "It's not that I think he'll go running into anything? It's just that… He really, _really_ loved Richard? And he probably still does. And whether he takes things slowly, or tells himself not to do any of it, or anything, I think he might _want_ to get back into things with Richard. And I think Misha's maybe not always the best judge of when he's moving too fast. But I also think that… we have to give him some room to move around, too, y'know? We probably went a little overboard just worrying about his thesis idea, and if he starts feeling suffocated, then he might try to rebel, or feel like we're taking the control of his life away from him, or… God, I don't even know what else."

Vicki heaves a deep breath and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "'Not always the best judge,'" she says. "That's putting it rather lightly. But point taken, I suppose. Trusting him's probably as much a part of his recovery as him trusting us and all that jazz."

"My point exactly," Jensen says, and nods, and hacks off a piece of one of his chicken strips. The nausea's fading, and he's hungry, and part of coming here was supposed to be so that he could fucking eat, in the first place.

*******

The problem with trusting Misha, though, is exactly that: Jensen has to trust Misha, when it goes against all of his instincts to protect the asshole. When he comes back to the table, he doesn't want to talk about how the conversation with Richard went, all he wants is for Mark to please clear out and let him eat with Jensen and Vicki, and Jensen pulls it out of thin air to convince everyone that it's really okay for Misha not to talk about things immediately. That it's really okay for them to let him breathe instead of forcing him to spill everything.

Granted, Jensen doesn't really believe a word he says—every inch of him burns to just pressure Misha into telling him what happened—but for what it's worth, Misha seems to be doing okay enough. He eats his food without complaining, and even seems to enjoy the whole process a little bit, once Mark leaves. So maybe it's in his best interests to leave talking until later. Maybe they don't have to press the issue right fucking now, because maybe he's doing well enough on his own that they can give him some wiggle room on the _talking about serious business things_ front.

Which actually ends up working out well enough, even if it takes a couple days. It's Monday night when the subject finally comes up, and Jensen's just put dinner away, then settled in next to Misha on the sofa for Star Trek time. Jensen should probably be reviewing some papers for work—classes might not start up again for another three weeks, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have things to get done—but Misha wants to get going on an epic rewatch of _Deep Space Nine_ as he works on gathering up ideas for, in his words, how to make his thesis idea more thesis-y and less of a word-vomit of all his feelings about his eating disorder.

He's quiet for a while, just reading some articles that he printed off, but eventually, he puts his pen and papers down and asks Jensen if they can talk. As though Jensen could ever say, "no" to that request coming from him.

"As though I ever would say, 'no' to that even if I could," he says by way of saying that of course they can talk, giving Misha's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Seriously, though, what's on your mind tonight?"

Misha shrugs and purses his lips a moment, leans his head down onto Jensen's shoulder, and says, "Nothing much, just… Richard stuff. Not in like the, 'I feel something particularly disordered going on and I'm just going to nebulously, jerk-ass-ishly call it Richard stuff' way, either. Like, literal Richard stuff."

"And it's absolutely, totally, not in any way related to the talk y'all had the other night, I'm guessing, right?"

"No, actually, it's very much related to that—and I know you're trying to be all drawling and facetious right now, but… can we just not right now?" Misha pauses with a heavy sigh, and waits for Jensen to suppose that they don't really have to do anything involving him being facetious right now, he was just trying to keep the mood kind of light, considering before he says, "Oh no, I get what you were trying to do—I just don't really feel like I'm up for trying to be any kind of facetious or light about this, at the moment, y'know?"

"Fair enough," Jensen supposes, and wriggles around on the sofa, trying to better accommodate it when Misha slouches further into his side. He's practically using Jensen as a body pillow, the way that Jensen tends to recline into Jared when he's actually around to be reclined into—and that fact makes Jensen's chest quiver and his stomach sour a bit, as though something he ate at dinner isn't really agreeing with him. Maybe they've sorted out the part where he and Misha are just friends, but when they do things that tread in the water of being even vaguely couple-y… When they cuddle on the sofa while watching Star Trek like Jensen's supposed to do with his boyfriend before anybody else…

Jensen huffs and shakes his head, which doesn't banish the thought completely, but at least manages to get Misha sitting up a little straighter, even if it's just so he can blink at Jensen and ask if everything's all right. Jensen nods. "Yeah, no, I'm good, I'm fine—I was just getting a little bit… magpie in a room full of shiny things-y. So what's on your mind about Richard stuff?"

"A lot of things, but mostly about the conversation we had? Which, admittedly, wasn't all that in-depth, not really. We mostly went over how I'm doing now, and how he's doing now, and how his dad's an emotionally manipulative asshole, and how my mom's gotten a lot better, actually… More immediately relevant sorts of stuff than anything else. I told him he was right about me having an eating disorder after all and he wasn't a dick about it, which was pretty cool. I'd kinda expected him to get a little, 'I told you so'-ish about it, but he was actually pretty cool about the whole thing."

Which all sounds pretty normal and unassuming to Jensen, so maybe there's really no cause for alarm or anything. Maybe Misha's seemed like he's doing okay because he really is doing okay.

But Misha heaves a deep breath, and blushes like he's feeling guilty or something, and the reason why makes itself relevant when he ducks his head and says to the sofa, "Also, we're going on a date this weekend."

Jensen blinks and Misha looks up at him like a nervous kitten. Jensen blinks and Misha asks if everything's okay. Jensen blinks some more and Misha sits up enough to turn and brush the backs of his fingers over Jensen's forehead, checking for a fever. But eventually, Jensen manages to say, "Wait a minute. You're doing _what_?"

Misha tries to nonchalantly shrug, but again, he comes out looking like the kitten who's just gone and broken the completely irreplaceable Faberge egg. "I'm going on a date," he says again, talking to Jensen like he's fucking five. "With Richard. It's not… I mean, it _is_ like a date-date, but I swear to God, I'm not blindly running into things. We're going to take it slowly this time. We already talked about that and decided that we'd go at whatever speed makes me feel the most comfortable. Maybe it'll be something more, maybe it'll be just one date, I don't know, but… I really want to find out?"

"And you don't think that maybe—and bear with me here, because it's just a maybe? But you don't think that _maybe_ you might end up rushing things because you want to make him happy? Y'know, like how you put yourself into triggering shit because you wanted to make _me_ happy? Because maybe, just maybe, you kind of have a problem about making all the other people in your life _happy_?"

"I _know_ I have a problem with trying to make everybody else happy, Jensen—it's not like I'm new to being myself or anything. But…" Trailing off, Misha shakes his head and sighs again, sighs with some immeasurable, unfathomable weight. "Please just trust me, okay, Jenny? Pretty please? I'm going to be fine if I go on a date with Richard. Everything's going to be fine. But you need to _trust me_. Not even just that, but I need you to trust me. I really, really do. Okay? Do you think you can trust me on this?"

Maybe it's almost exactly what Jensen said to Mark and Vicki—maybe he was pretty much exactly right in pegging that Misha needs people to trust him right now—but that doesn't exactly make it easier for Jensen, recognizing that he's on the wrong side of the trust equation at the moment. But he heaves his own sigh, and he says that of course he trusts Misha. Even if he's going to worry anyway, it's true—and even if it weren't, he'd lie because Misha needs him to.

Which, now that Jensen thinks of it, would defeat the whole trust equation in the first place. So it's probably a good thing that he's making himself trust Misha.

*******

"Well, don't you think he deserves that trust, though? I mean, not even thinking about things that'll help him get better, but like… If he wants to date his ex and maybe have it turn into something more, then he's an adult and he can make that call?"

Jensen doesn't mean to roll his eyes down at the Skype box—not entirely, anyway. Not enough to get the pointedly arched eyebrow that Jared insists on giving him, at any rate—but on the other hand, Jensen's not entirely sure he really needs Jared telling him what he already knows about trusting Misha and whatnot. Sure, it's something that Jensen needs reminding of when he gets feeling overprotective of his best friend, but it's not something that needs bringing up when he's on Skype with his boyfriend, trying to ignore the pressing anxiety over the fact that Misha's on a date right now.

Hell, he's even had five days to adjust to the idea—by now, he should really, really, really be over it. But even so, Jensen can't shake this feeling like something's going to go terribly wrong and fuck up all of Misha's recovery and every step forward that he's made so far. He can't shake this gut-twisting, bone-scraping nausea. He's finding it hard to keep giving Jared a show by snacking on things from the stash because his stomach's so deeply unsettled by the mere thought that something's going to go wrong. But Jensen presses on, unwraps another bar of Hershey's Special Dark, and licks up the back of it before taking a huge bite out of the top.

"Y'know, we don't have to do the food-play stuff tonight if you'd rather not," Jared says, once Jensen's halfway through the chocolate. Yeah, like he's going to just up and stop eating a bar of chocolate before he's done with it. Jared shrugs. "Not like you're going to do anything in particular, really, I just thought maybe you wanted to stop for one reason or another. Like maybe the reason where you're all anxious about Misha's date and everything."

Jensen sighs and takes another bite of the chocolate bar, sucks on it until it melts and throws in some of the most blatantly fake moaning noises he thinks he's ever given Jared, period. Because they're just fooling around, now, despite any attempts to talk about feelings that Jensen has about things other than his boyfriend, and that includes his best friend because Misha isn't in this relationship with him and Jared. Not that they couldn't work things out that way, if everyone was amenable to it. If only that'd seemed like an option before Richard showed up back on the scene, carrying some bullshit offer of closure or what the Hell else he might be selling. Jensen trusts Richard about as far as he can throw him, which probably isn't far, even if he's gone and lost weight, like Misha said he has.

"Hate to burst your bubble, Jen, but I don't think threesomes are really an option that's all that conducive for Misha's recovery either." Jared rolls his eyes affectionately and tucks a piece of hair behind his ear—and as he leans back in his chair, Jensen can't help thinking that his t-shirt looks pretty tight around his middle, almost like it's riding up on him. "Like, not that I'd really be opposed to one or anything, but he might be? And he's sort of really, really in love with this Richard guy, right?"

"He _was_ really, really in love with this Richard guy, yeah," Jensen says with a petulant huff. "That's kind of why I'm all worried and shit. And kind of why I don't really want Richard anywhere near him. Like, I trust Misha—but his fucking ex is a whole different sort of story."

"Well, yeah, you kind of mentioned that, and for what it's worth? I think you're overreacting kind of a lot. I mean, if they're taking things slowly and if they're taking Misha's recovery process into account like he says they are, then what's the big deal?"

"The big deal is how much it fucked Misha up when this douchebag walked out on him, Jay. The big deal is how much he, like—I don't even know…" Jensen tears off another piece of chocolate and, to his own surprise, growls a bit as he pops it in his mouth. "But you weren't here, Jay. You didn't see how bad he got. If you had, though, you'd be worried about him, too."

"Hey, it's not like I'm not worried now, okay? Like, Misha's my friend, too, and I want what's best for him—but maybe what's best for him includes this Richard guy, in some kind of capacity? Maybe not even as his boyfriend again, but if he was that important to Misha, and if Misha trusts him, then maybe we should give him a chance, too, is all I'm saying?"

As he finishes the chocolate, Jensen feels something lump up in his throat. It stays there once he's swallowed the last bit and it just gets worse when he looks down at the Skype box, at Jared's wide, earnest smile and the shadow on the grainy screen that makes his face look a little bit rounder. Jensen heaves several deep breaths, trying to clear it out, but nothing works—and understandably so, considering the way his heart sinks into the pit of his stomach and starts twisting around. His cheeks flush hot and for a moment, he can't look at Jared's pixellated eyes because it just makes the burning worse. He drags his teeth along his lip and only doesn't reach for another snack because the overwhelming guilt is kind of nauseating.

(If Jensen didn't know any better, he'd think that shadow looked like a double-chin, or the start of one anyway. But Jensen does know better than to go and expect something like that. It's practically impossible for Jared to put on weight, and he can't have gained any weight during their twenty weeks apart because logic says that Jensen's just seeing things. Maybe he does wish that Jared _would_ gain weight—that Jared _could_ gain weight—and maybe that's why he's seeing this sort of thing specifically—but the last possible explanation in the world is that Jared actually got chubby, too. That's just silly.)

Shaking his head, Jensen tries to banish himself back to reality. Back to the world where his boyfriend's probably waiting for him to say something—say anything, even just some random bullshit anecdote about how his day went that wouldn't interest anybody else but Jay—and back to the world where, no, really, he needs to quit zoning out to thoughts of absorbing Misha into their relationship and thoughts of what Jared would look like with fifty or sixty extra pounds on him.

Before he can say anything, though, Jared goes and does it for him: "Hey… you okay over there, Sexy?"

"Don't you ever get, like, jealous or anything?" Jensen spits out without thinking about it, without considering any of his words, much less any of his feelings about them, twisted and knotted up as they are. Why bother untangling the knot before running his mouth off, even if it could possibly spare him having to blush again, having to listen to Jared asking him to explain what in the Hell he's talking about.

"Don't you ever get jealous?" Jensen says again, and sighs, and worries his hands down the curve of his stuffed belly, sinks his fingertips into his soft, pliant flesh. "Don't you ever, like, look at me and Misha and wonder why I care about him so much? Or wonder if I don't care about you as much as I should? Or something? Anything? Anything at all?"

Jared leans back in his chair again, stretching out with a bone-deep yawn, and again, Jensen gets an eyeful of something that he swears looks like a belly. Not a huge one, not by any stretch of the imagination—it doesn't even rival Jensen's in size, by the looks of it—but Jared's midsection looks decidedly convex. Plush and round and decidedly stretching that t-shirt well past its limits, with a deep indent around his bellybutton and a softened chest to go with it. But that's ridiculous—but it can't be like that— _but focus, Jensen, because there's no way in Hell that your boyfriend got fat without you knowing it, even if he's on the other side of the ocean right now, you would've noticed something and besides, Jared can never keep weight on_.

Ruffling his own hair, Jared settles back down, leans back in toward his laptop, and says, "Okay, you caught me. Sometimes, I do get jealous of Misha—but it never lasts, and you want to know why?" (He pauses just long enough for Jensen to say that of course he wants to know why.) "The jealousy never lasts because I sit down, and I think about it, and I remember that there are lots of ways of caring about people. Not just romantic love or sexual love or whatever. And it's not fair of me to go conflating the way you love Misha with the way you love me when they're completely different, you know what I mean, Jen?"

Jensen has to think about it for a moment, but he guesses that he knows what Jared means. "Next question, Boy Genius," he says, "do you ever wonder if maybe you're too well-adjusted for your own good or something?"

Jared shrugs. "Yeah, but then I usually think… well, whose opinion on what's good for me really matters aside from mine and yours, anyway?"


	33. Maybe, Maybe Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Misha has his date with Richard and everything goes kind of weirdly all around.

"What do you think about this one?" Sighing heavily, Misha smooths his hands out over his blazer, then fusses with the buttons on his Oxford without actually undoing them.

Vicki just rolls her eyes, arches a brow at him as though he's some particularly vexing child. "I think you look like you're going to your first prom and you want Richard to fuck you stupid in the backseat of his car. Preferably without Mom and Dad finding out about it. Maybe with Heart or Bad Company playing on the radio."

It's date night—only three hours off from when he and Richard are getting dinner at the vegan Thai place down in town—and by all rights, Misha should've picked an outfit out by now. If he were any kind of responsible, he would've picked an outfit by now… but he's been busy with preliminary thesis things, and he's been busy with doctors' appointments, and he's been busy his epic rewatch of _Deep Space Nine_ , and Vicki's been busy because she didn't need to take a leave of absence this semester, so she's had to go in to work. They just haven't had a quiet moment to themselves.

And tonight's important, after all, so how could Misha even think about going out without getting his sister's opinions on what he's going to wear? She knows better than Misha how he looks, to begin with. It probably goes without saying, since he supposes that his admittedly distorted perception of things means that most people know how he looks better than he does—but Vicki's opinion matters more because she's his Vicki.

"I'm serious about this look for you, brother," she says with a huff. "You look like you're going to spend the entire night waiting by the spiked punchbowl, waiting for him to come ask if you want to dance with him, and by dance, I mean, 'have sex.' Lots of sex. In the backseat of his shitty little car."

He takes a moment to think about what she's tossed out there on this outfit, then says, "Well, I wouldn't exactly want to say _no_ to that, but considering we're taking things slowly, I probably would. Like, ninety-five percent chance."

"And he would damn well respect it or I would end him. I would make him watch while I castrated him, and I—"

"Yeah, because for all of our problems, and for everything he ever did, he totally ever gave you reason to think that he doesn't understand what is and isn't consent. Or that he'd ever do anything like that." Misha rolls his eyes, shakes his head, shunts off the blazer and starts rifling through his closet again. Maybe he needs a different jacket, or a different shirt. Maybe he's looking too formal for what's supposed to just be him and Richard getting dinner and reestablishing contact with each other.

And as he brushes his fingers down one of Grandma Krushnic's sweaters—the blue and black one with the little details done up in white—he adds, "Richard isn't as bad as everybody thinks he is, Vicki—he's definitely not a rapist and he's not going to do anything with me or to me that I don't want him to do. We talked about that much at the buffet last weekend, at least. Right when we agreed that we were going to take everything slowly."

As though that's the final word on the subject, Misha reaches for one of his sweater-vests—the navy one that brings out his eyes in really pretty-looking ways. He wriggles into it, and before he can turn around to show it to Vicki, he needs to take a moment for himself. Yesterday, he got to have a weigh-in, because he gets them on the first Friday of every month now, and he weighed in at one-seventy—a little less than Christmas morning, a little more than what he's always liked, but the only difference is that it doesn't feel bad anymore. Not really, anyway? Having a number on it doesn't really make him hate himself, or even the bit of pudge around his tummy, which really isn't all that bad, he thinks.

Oh, the urge is still there—the little tickle in the back of his mind, that drive to think that he's so enormous and disgusting—but as he brushes his hands down his middle, trying to get the wrinkles out of the vest, Misha barely even registers that his palms sink into something soft. At that, his lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile. Maybe his body isn't perfect, but it's his, and it's a good body, for the most part, and he thinks it looks alright just like this, wrapped up in his white Oxford and the pullover, navy sweater-vest.

It's not that Vicki disagrees, but when he turns around to get her opinion on the outfit, she sighs. Immediately, she's at his side, fixing his collar, despite his protests that hey, he isn't going on the date yet, he still has to get a shower and everything, so he doesn't need to look all black-tie perfect or anything like that.

"Oh, no, I understand that," she says. "But you know how you get irrationally irritated by things sometimes? Your collar was irrationally irritating me and it needed fixing." She huffs and gives him a quick once-over. "But now that it's all good? I like this outfit. It's not too high school dance, and it's not too old either like that ridiculous tweedy number—"

"Hey, I like the ridiculous tweedy number. Maybe not for a date outfit or anything, yeah, I can see why it wouldn't be a good call for that, but it makes me look like the Doctor—hey! Ow!"

By way of cutting him off, she flicks him in the forehead. It doesn't actually hurt that much—not as much as it's incredibly annoying—but it stings a little bit, and in response to his sad kitten face, she just tells him, "It makes you look like you're trying to be a professor before you're ready for it, brother. Not that there's anything wrong with looking like a professor, but the whole, 'not ready for it yet' part is sort of a big deal, to me."

Misha purses his lips and shakes his head again. "I'd call you completely ridiculous if it wouldn't make me basically the biggest hypocrite ever."

Vicki snickers, smiles at him, and brushes her hands down his shoulders. "You can call me ridiculous, if you want. I won't mind it."

He huffs, leans down so she can kiss his forehead. "You're completely ridiculous sometimes, Vicks," he says. "But it's okay—that's one reason why I love you."

*******

Dinner is basically an exercise in avoiding the elephant in the room—until the elephant decides to crash in and make itself known anyway. They carry on making small talk so long, Misha almost expects that he might get out of this without having to acknowledge what he and Richard clearly don't want to talk about. Maybe they don't need to dredge up the past after all—maybe they can just talk to each other like people who've never had a messy break-up (if, "messy break-up" really describes what happened between them)—maybe it's better if they don't talk about anything at all.

Maybe it's better if they keep things limited to acting like there's not this history behind them, talking about how Misha's recovery is going (fine—or, you know, as fine as it can be when he's being more emotionally honest than he's ever been with basically anybody), or what Richard's looking into grad school for (anthropology—it's always been his one true love, academically speaking anyway), or anything _but_ the way things ended last time. Maybe it's better, Misha thinks, because maybe it means that they don't have to deal with anything. Maybe it means that everything's fine and he'll get through tonight without pouring salt into a wound that never really fully closed.

It doesn't even really nag at Misha, how stilted the conversation is, how formal. He could probably live with stilted conversation for the rest of forever, if he needed to, as long as it meant that they never had to talk about what happened—which probably doesn't speak well of how he's recovering, now that he thinks about it. Avoiding the subject probably means something like how Misha's going to have to bring this up in therapy, more than he already would've had to bring up the whole, "I had dinner with the ex I'm still in love with" thing. Which he definitely needed to bring up in the first place—it's one of those things that a therapist should know. Maybe, possibly, just a little bit.

But still, Misha lets himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he won't have to talk about the issue at hand. Maybe he won't have to give the elephant any fucking attention.

Except that Misha's heart keeps gnawing at the inside of his ribcage, every time he looks Richard in the eye. Except that Misha can't get over the sensation clawing at the back of his neck, the anxiety twisting around the pit of his stomach. Except that, in the middle of an otherwise pleasant round of small talk—in the middle of talking about how Misha's thinking about turning his recovery into a creative Master's thesis at Edlund's suggestion—Misha has to go and blurt out, "You really hurt me—and I mean, you _really_ hurt me—you know that, right?"

Richard blinks at him and says, "Excuse me, what," as though he never saw this coming. As though he really has no idea what Misha might be talking about.

Misha sighs and cards a hand back through his hair. Damn him and his big mouth all to Hell. "When you just up and left like that," he says. "You really hurt me, when you did that. I'm still kind of fucked up about it, actually, in a lot of different ways."

He can't look Richard in the eye when he says it—he just has to look down at his tofu Pad Thai, something he wouldn't have allowed himself to have not that long ago, and he has to force himself to look up when Richard sighs and tells him, "Yeah, well… There's a story there, an explanation, like? If you want to hear any of it?"

"What the Hell kind of thing to say is that?" Immediately, looking Richard in the eye gets easier—probably because he needs a good glaring-at right now. Not that Misha really manages glaring at him. Not that he ever really could. He rolls his eyes, sure, and arches an eyebrow at Richard like he can't believe the asshole's even going to go there, like he can't believe that Richard's even going to try acting like Misha wouldn't want to hear about this issue. "Of course I want to hear about it, smart-ass. I mean, you leaving only ripped the rug out from under my entire fucking life—why wouldn't I want to hear some kind of explanation for why you did it?"

"I don't know—maybe it'd be triggering for you or something. Rehashing old stories, reopening old wounds… I'm not you and I don't really know how your recovery's going, past what you've said tonight… And it's not like I really want to go upsetting your applecart too much." Richard shrugs, and gives Misha some unreadable expression—no, seriously, Misha stares at it for a good minute and he has no idea what he's supposed to be gleaning from the look on Richard's face. It's part-sympathetic and part-confrontational, partly offering Misha a shoulder to lean on and partly daring him to go through with this, if he's really going to do it. To get on with it, if he's really going to go here.

"Well, I want to hear about it, and you know why?" Misha pauses, licks his lips, prods at his Pad Thai with his fork but doesn't eat any of it. Not because he's not still hungry—because he is and he'll let himself eat more in a moment—but… well, his mother raised him well enough to know that he doesn't talk with his mouth full. "I want to know about this fantastic explanation—and I'm sure it's great, and that's not actually me trying to be a sarcastic shit—because after you left? I crashed and _burned_ after you left, Richard, and I mean… Literally the only reason that I didn't go to rehab—to some inpatient eating disorder clinic?—back then was because I wasn't medically underweight, so the insurance probably wouldn't have covered it."

"Well, that's pretty fucked up of the insurance—but then again, I'm just saying that based on the very vague outline of, 'well, I crashed and burned' and what I can infer about how you must've been doing at the time—"

"I _made myself throw up_ ," Misha snaps. He snaps more than he really means to snap, but on the other hand, it's not as though it's really his fault—besides, he's supposed to be feeling his feelings instead of trying to control them by dicking around with how much he eats and how he relates to it. "I pulled back from _everyone_ , and I barely let myself eat anything, and just—I mean… one time, I ran so long that I threw up in a bush. And you know why pretty much every single person I dated after you broke up with me? Because I'm quote-unquote emotionally unavailable."

"What is that? Some cute new way of saying, 'madly in love with Jensen'? Because if it is, well, I just can't imagine why anybody would take issue with it. I mean, I've obviously never been in a position where I might empathize with them over you here—I've never once had to deal with the fact that my boyfriend would rather be with someone else." Because his sarcasm clearly doesn't sting enough, Richard has to go and smirk—not affectionately, or playfully, but coldly, like the edge of a knife's slicing the expression onto his face.

Misha just rolls his eyes—he's not going to take Richard's bait, he's not going to take Richard's bait, he's not going to—"Are you done yet? Because I really don't want to have a fight when we're in the middle of a goddamn restaurant."

"Really? You _don't_ want a fight? Because I couldn't tell from the way you're sort of verbally smacking me in the face over here."

"Maybe I'm just kind of pissy because you're being kind of a flippant asshole while I'm trying to be honest with you." He can't believe he thought this dinner was a good idea. "And for the record? I finally figured it out while I've not been with you. Yeah, I love Jensen—I love him like a brother, or like a platonic soulmate, or something—but you know what? I'm not _in love_ with him. I'm in love with the fact that he's perpetually unavailable. I'm in love with the fact that he's not in love with me. I'm in love with the fact that, no matter what I do, no matter how long I wait or how much I feed him, Jensen feels exactly the same way about me that I do about him, and none of it is really, honest to God romantic. Never mind the issue of how what I need isn't what I want."

Richard blinks at Misha for a long moment, furrows his brow and wrinkles his nose, and looks like he has no idea how to respond to that—and Misha's not entirely sure that he blames Richard for drawing a blank like that. But eventually, Richard sighs and says, "Isn't that a pretty self-destructive way to live your life? I mean, not like I think you consciously chose to live like that, but… wow."

Misha shrugs, sighs. "I'm working on it with my therapist. It's kind of a work in progress. Kind of like me and my entire damn life."

"Yeah, well, you and everybody else on the planet," Richard points out. "The minute we stop being works in progress, we die."

"Well, maybe that's still news to me, okay? Maybe I'm still getting used to the idea that I'm not perfect and never going to be. Maybe I'm still sort of barely keeping everything together some days because everything's changing on me—"

"You took a mental health leave of absence, Misha. I don't really think anybody _expects_ you to be keeping your shit together in the way that _you_ seem to think you should be keeping your shit together."

Misha heaves a deep breath and combs both palms back over his hair. Where are they going? And how the fuck did they end up here? They're not supposed to have gotten to this kind of place—the place where Misha's being reminded of how fucked up he is, and the place where he's being reminded that he's not allowed to really criticize himself because he has to allow himself to be a mess sometimes—they're not supposed to be here, and yet, they are. Complete with Richard giving Misha some overly sympathetic look like Misha might break if he says the wrong thing. God, some date night this is turning out to be—so much for thinking that this would even work—so much for thinking that he's getting better.

"I can't even make sense out of everything right now," Misha admits quietly. "Weren't you supposed to be explaining why you up and disappeared on me? Wasn't I supposed to be listening to you instead of just… commandeering the whole conversation to make it about me and my issues? Wasn't this conversation supposed to go _differently_?"

"Well, it sounds like you maybe needed to talk about you and your issues, though," Richard points out and reaches across the table to squeeze his wrist. For a moment, Misha just looks down at Richard's hand, at Richard's fingers curled around him and takes several deep breaths, trying not to lose his cool—to whatever degree he can be said to still have his cool, at this point. "And y'know, if you need to talk about things, then… that's okay? And I'll listen as much as you want me to?"

"I think I've needed to talk about things… probably ever since I was a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound fourteen-year-old who binged his way into four years at fat camp. The problem is that I just… keep getting all the opportunities to talk about myself and my problems, and turning them into some dumb-ass display of how clever I am." Misha shakes his head, turns his hand over and wiggles it around so he's cupping Richard's palm. "I learned that in therapy, too—it's kind of weird, actually having a therapist who calls me on my bullshit? But, like, good weird. Not bad weird."

Richard pauses, and looks like his eyes might bug out of his skull—oh right, he's never heard the story about where Misha's eating disorder first started; this is news to him. But all he does, once he's recovered from the shock, is tell Misha, "Thanks for sharing that with me—it means a lot," and lace their fingers up together. "And what about this conversation?" he says. "Is it good weird or bad weird?"

The conversation, Misha decides, is mostly good weird, with a little bit of bad—but that doesn't stop him from asking the waiter for the check.

*******

The drive back to the apartment complex is quiet, for the most part, only punctuated by the different songs playing on the radio and, for Misha, by his internal monologue. Which isn't his fault, really, considering that they left the restaurant in some wonky kind of Limbo—does Richard want a repeat of this date? should they even be thinking about another date? just how weird of Misha is it that he really kind of wants another date? what kinds of shit does that say about him, and how does it reflect on him, and does this mean he's just an incurable emotional masochist or what?

They couldn't even make it through this one thing—this one thing that was mostly designed to make sure they could be civil with each other when Richard moves to town more permanently—without fighting in some way which means that Misha probably shouldn't want another date. And yet? He's slouched up against Richard's passenger-side door, thinking all about whether or not he should ask Richard for a second date before they make it home. Wondering whether or not it would be any kind of good idea for his recovery to ask about a second date. Maybe, maybe not—Misha just doesn't really know.

But what he does know is… "You know, it wasn't really Jensen or my crush on him that fucked up all of my relationships, right?" he says while they're at a red light, fussing with his sleeve a bit. "Like, okay, that didn't help—especially not since Genevieve is Jensen's boyfriend's cousin—but the emotionally unavailable thing wasn't really anything to do with Jensen."

Richard huffs and looks over at Misha with that illegible expression again—the one that's too sympathetic to be daring, but too daring to be sympathetic. "So what was it about, then?"

"It was all about me." Misha shrugs, bristles a bit against the door. "A little about you, but mostly about me. About me and how I thought that I could just stop being the guy I was in high school, and the miserable fucking kid at fat camp, and leave all that shit behind me. I mean, it didn't really help that I was more honest with you than I make a policy of being with anybody and you left me like that—but it was mostly all on me. Not that you didn't hurt me or anything, because you did, but… still. Mostly on me."

"I think it's probably safe to say that we both hurt each other," Richard says as though he expects some kind of fight about that—and if Misha had the energy, maybe he'd disagree, but on the other hand, Richard probably has a point. "I mean, you having an eating disorder? The way it made you act while we were still together? Not really your fault or anything like that—not something I really _blame_ you for—but it still fucked with my head more than a little bit. And maybe it's kinda hard for me to just move past that?"

"Well, maybe it's kinda hard for me to just move past your disappearing act." As though that really needs saying after Misha practically started a war in the middle of the restaurant. As the light changes and Richard heads off down the road again, Misha shakes his head, combs his fingers back through his hair. "I mean, I want to move past it, but maybe it's something that we'll need to work on. If we're going to see each other again—and I mean in any kind of context, not just in the dating each other, maybe, context. Not that I'm thinking about dating you."

"Except you are, and I'm thinking about dating you, and maybe we need to just be honest about that?" Richard sighs and rolls up to a stop sign, pulls into the apartment's garage and an empty space. "Do you still wanna know about why I left?"

Misha sighs and stares straight ahead at the concrete wall—he's not entirely sure about this. He's not sure that, after all the arguing and the build-up, he really needs or wants an explanation for why Richard just fucked off instead of hanging around like he promised that he would. He's not sure that finally getting an explanation will really make him feel better or really make the situation less troublesome on every front. But still he nods, and supposes that he wants to hear about it, yeah. He's only been waiting for this explanation for years, now—how bad could it really be to finally get it? How bad could it really be to finally rip this bandaid off?

Of course, the bandaid's covering a gaping wound that's two steps off from gushing blood all over the place—but Misha can't just run from Richard's explanation forever. He could try, but he'd still want to hear it, and it'd still probably be better for him to hear it. He guesses, anyway—and Richard sighs, and gives him a long, tired look that says he'd probably agree with Misha's assessment that having this conversation is better for them both.

"It wasn't anything to do with you," he says, hands still curled around the steering wheel, even with the car in park. "I just want to get that out of the way—even if stuff you did fucked with my head. Even though it was kind of shit to hear about how much you hated your own body and get wondering what you had to think about _mine_ —"

"Not that it really makes a difference now, but I only ever thought your body was amazing." Misha shouldn't roll his eyes, but he kind of can't help it—he kind of tries to fight the impulse, but he doesn't actually succeed. How many times did he and Richard talk about this when they were still dating? How many times is Misha going to have to explain this to people? "My issues about weight and fat and stuff only apply to my own body—not to yours or Jensen's or anybody else's—"

"Are you gonna let me go through with this or are we going to end up having another argument?" Richard waits for Misha to apologize, to promise that he'll shut up and let Richard talk now, then goes on, "But like I said, it wasn't about you. It was never, ever about you. I really did have every intention of being there for you. It was all about my fucking father, and it was all about him emotionally manipulating me—pulling out all kinds of shit about how my mom was dying and how I was breaking her heart by getting fat the way that I did with you…"

Richard pauses for a moment, staring down at the steering wheel instead of looking at Misha—he stares at the thing so intently, Misha's half-convinced that Richard's eyes are going to make the thing catch fire. "He was full of shit, not that I knew that until after she was dead. And until after he'd gone and cut off my phone after sending me to some fat farm… If I'd had my way, I would've been there for you, no matter what, but he got in the way, and he cut me off from everyone, and when I finally got out, I wasn't sure if you even _wanted_ to hear from me anymore…"

"Jesus Christ," is the only thing that Misha can think of to say, and he only says it after Richard's been quiet for long enough that the silence starts scraping along the back of Misha's neck like nails on a chalkboard. "Richard, I—not that it really makes a difference? But I'm sorry that you had to deal with that. And I'm sorry that you put up with it alone. If I'd just been there for you…"

"Don't beat yourself up over this. You couldn't have really done anything about it," Richard points out—and of course he's right about that, but that doesn't mean that the guilty twisting in Misha's stomach gets any easier to deal with. It doesn't stop Misha from reaching over to curl his hand around Richard's, slipping his fingers between Richard's, waiting for Richard to say something, anything…

But Richard doesn't have anything to say. He just leans over and kisses Misha—and before Misha really knows what's what, he's kissing back. He's running his lips over Richard's and reaching up to twine his fingers in Richard's hair, holding on to Richard's head so he can't get away—because he might try to get away again, and Misha's not sure what he'll do if Richard slips away on him again. Richard takes a cue from that and curls his hands up in Misha's jacket, holds them there for a moment before he decides to put a hand on Misha's thigh instead, dangerously close to Misha's groin. And that's just—something hot twists out in the pit of Misha's stomach, he can feel himself _wanting_ and Richard's car does have a pretty nice backseat—but as he sucks on Richard's lower lip, his heart won't stop fluttering in terror.

"We can't," he says breathlessly, yanking back from Richard and staring right at him. "It's not like… I want to, I really do—if I could have sex with you tonight, I definitely would, but… It's a recovery thing, okay? I just don't think I'm ready to have sex with you yet."

Richard blinks at Misha. Nods. Leans up to kiss his cheek. "Okay," he says. "I can wait for when you're ready."


	34. Big Guys, You Are Beautiful.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jared comes back from Oxford, Jensen and Misha both worry a bunch, and revelations are stumbled onto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over! …by which I mean that this is the last chapter, and I feel like I should have something profound to say about that—but I really, really don't. Writing this fic has been just over a year-and-a-half of total ridiculousness, and there have been several times when I was certain that it was never going to get done, ever. But now it is and I sort of don't know what to do with myself, now. Anyway: thank you all for reading, and commenting, and everything—and I need to give special thanks to ~emmylizzie@LJ for holding my hand through the several rough patches that this fic went through and always being such a sweet, encouraging cheerleader. You're a peach, hon. You really are. ♥

Of course, Misha tells Jensen about how his date with Richard went. Once he's back up in the apartment, once he's gone and changed out of his nice clothes, once he's flopped out on the sofa with Jensen and an episode of Deep Space Nine, Misha spills absolutely everything, including the parts where Jensen got brought up. The parts where, as it turns out, Richard had been jealous of him back then.

It's not kissing and telling because Jensen's his best friend and best friends are exempt from the normal rules of kissing and telling—in so many words, it's not kissing and telling because Misha says it's not. He sighs, nuzzling at Jensen's shoulder, and guesses that everything could've gone a lot worse, all things considered.

"All things _considered_?" Jensen balks and his eyes nearly bug out of his skull—he raises both eyebrows and gives Misha a _Look_ as though he just suggested trying to break out the DeForrest Kelley zombie all over again or doing something equally destructive. "Meesh, I'd say that all things considered, your date went pretty well—I mean, neither of you caused a scene in the restaurant, right? And neither of you really hurt each other, you just brought up all kinds of shit that really kinda _needed_ to get brought up if anything else is going to come out of this. And I mean… come on. Aren't you even a little bit happy about that?"

"Of course I'm happy about that," Misha says, wilting into Jensen's warm, pudgy side some more and letting Jensen curl his arm tighter around his shoulders. "I'm absolutely overjoyed that we laid out the groundwork for something more to come out of this date, it's just…" He sighs, lifts his head up and cards a hand back through his hair. And his head finds its way back to Jensen's shoulder pretty quickly. "I kind of can't believe it's really happening, y'know? After all the time I spent thinking about him and wishing he'd come back and everything… and now he's here and it's like… well, holy shit."

"Yeah, I'd guess it would be like that." Idly, Jensen rubs at Misha's upper arm in long, slow circles—up and down, up and down, up and down—it gets Misha to lean into him even further, curl his legs up underneath himself and wrap his arms around Jensen's waist (inasmuch as he can), just for the express purpose of being closer together.

And they _are_ closer together. There's barely room for breath between their bodies, now, and were Jensen anybody else, this would have a chance of leading somewhere else—but because he's Jensen, and because Misha knows he doesn't really want him, it's just quiet and platonic, warm and comforting, like coming home and getting lazy after a long day of therapy appointments and homework for his various doctors.

"I'm sort of in a similar position, actually," Jensen says after a little while, long enough that Misha starts half-zoning out to the episode and feeling like he could nod off right here and now. He perks up at the sound of Jensen's voice, though, blinks at him and asks what Jensen means by that. Jensen shrugs and goes on, "I just meant, like. I'm in a similar sort of position—with Jared, kind of. All the time he's been gone, I've just been wishing he'd get back already—but now he gets back next week, and I can't stop, like, thinking about… y'know, everything? And what he's gonna say about everything?"

Furrowing his brow, lifting his head up off of Jensen's shoulder again, Misha spends a moment doing little more than staring at his best friend and wondering what the Hell's gotten into Jensen's head this time. He squints at Jensen as though this might make Jensen's behavior—not to mention what Jensen has to say about his boyfriend coming back—make any more sense than it does.

Which doesn't really work on its own merits, but does lead Misha's eyes on a trail down Jensen's frame, down to his lap, where his free hand's fussing with the hem of his t-shirt. In an instant, Jensen's meaning becomes clear: he's worrying about his weight, and he's worrying about how Jared will react to it, and because the Devil's in the details, he's probably worrying all the way down to the wide strip of belly that his t-shirt can't keep hidden, no matter how hard he tugs.

His cheeks flush pink when Misha calls him out on this, and he ducks his chin into the extra pudge that he's accumulated around his face, and his burgeoning double-chin looks so very bitable—but he drags Misha back down into reality when he says, "It's not like I really think Jay's gonna ditch me for getting fat without him or anything? I mean, he likes it, and he knows that I like it, and everybody who matters likes it, so we're good on that front. It's just… I'm bigger than I've ever been before? So, that's different. And weird. And stuff. And I just don't know how he's going to react to it?"

"You know what I think?" Misha says with a sigh—he even picks up the remote and pauses the episode, just so Jensen has to hear everything he says. Maybe he can't tell Jensen everything—he can't tell Jensen about what Jared's been up to overseas, because Jared made him promise to keep it a secret—but he can tell Jensen this much:

"I think, Jenny, that your boyfriend loves you no matter what size you are. And I think the only thing that's gonna be on his mind when he gets back is the fact that he loves you, and the fact that he hasn't seen you in twenty-two weeks, and the fact that he'll probably be jet-lagged and tired as Hell."

Jensen blinks at Misha for a long moment, wrinkles his nose, and says, "Since when did you get to be the voice of reason between the two of us, huh? I mean, like… really?"

Misha shrugs and supposes that it's probably not that huge a change from how things have always been between them. "I think we've always secretly traded off on the role," he says. "The only reason why you have to fill it more is that I'm usually the one of us who needs to hear a voice of reason more. Besides," he adds with a pat on Jensen's belly, "I'm generally halfway decent at being one for other people—where I get tripped up is all a matter of being the voice of reason for myself."

*******

Not that any of this conversation really stops Jensen from worrying, but then again, Misha never really expects it to. He knows Jensen better than that—and anyway, the more Jensen worries, the more he wants to eat. The more he wants to eat, the more weight he's going to put on (probably) before their last weigh-in.

By the time their moment of truth finally comes, his belly's finally started sagging properly, instead of sticking out, all perky and round and self-insistent. It's still easily the biggest part of him—bigger than his porky thighs and his full ass, his wide hips—and sitting on the edge of the tub, Misha feels his heart beat faster as he wraps the tape-measure around Jensen's waist. Not fast enough to set his head spinning, but the same kind of fast enough that always happens when he gets the chance to take an attractive person's measurements.

When he comes up with the figure, he glances up at Jensen, looking for an indication that he's ready—Jensen huffs a bit and nods, and Misha tells him, "Well. According to the record, you were a smudge over thirty-eight inches around when we started our little project—"

"I remember that pretty clearly, yeah, just like I remember still fitting in those size-40 jeans that Jared got me—now get on to the good stuff, Misha."

"Fifty-two-and-a-half, then. You're up to fifty-two-and-a-half inches around, and you clearly have no appreciation for building to a climax." With a huff and a roll of his eyes, Misha slips the measuring tape down off of Jensen's belly and starts rolling it up.

While he twines it up around his fingers, Jensen drops both hands to the fullest part of his stomach, right around where his t-shirt's ridden up to his bellybutton. He fusses with the hem, but doesn't try to pull it down over the wide strip of skin that's just sitting there, all pale and exposed. Palming at his belly, Jensen jostles it around—he pushes his flab out further and sinks his hands into it, pinches large rolls of fat between both hands and shakes them—Misha's mouth starts going dry just watching him and he preemptively drops his own hands over his crotch.

Not because anything's going on in particular, though. Just in case. Because Misha's boxers really wouldn't hide anything if he accidentally got hard.

At least Jensen doesn't play with his belly for long enough to be a problem. At least he turns to face the scale next and kicks it into life. At least he doesn't notice the thick way that Misha swallows or the way he licks his lips as the pleasant, automated voice intones: _Hello, **Jensen**. Today, your weight is **two-hundred and eighty-eight** pounds. For your height of **six** feet and **one** inch, your weight is **obese**. Thank you. Goodbye._

At least, when Jensen looks back over to Misha, he's grinning so much it looks like it has to hurt, instead of wringing his hands over whether or not Jared's going to approve of this development. That might not be an indication that everything's going to go smoothly—but at the very least, it means that Jensen's in a pretty good place. He's ready for Jared to come home again, and he's ready to stand on his own two feet about his weight gain.

But just in case he isn't, Misha has to ask: "So… how does it feel? Good?"

Jensen shrugs, turns the volume down on his grin just a little bit—just enough for him to say, "I beat my goal by almost ten pounds, Meesh—I'd say it feels pretty fucking fabulous."

"I don't know these things, okay," Misha deadpans, fighting off a powerful impulse to roll his eyes. "I mean, you've been worrying all week about what Jared's gonna say. How am I supposed to just guess that you'd be happy about this? For all I know, you could be beating yourself up about it, and then I'd have to feel guilty as shit for helping you get to this point."

He's mostly joking. Mostly. And either way, it makes him heave a sigh of relief when Jensen tells him, "It's not like I'm not still worried about what Jared's gonna say—because I am? Kind of? I mean, obviously, he's my boyfriend and I care about what he thinks, but… It still feels good, y'know?"

"Well, actually, I wouldn't _really_ know, considering everything about my history, but…" Misha sighs again, deeper and heavier this time, and scrubs at his face because it's too fucking early for any discussions of body image to be happening. "I guess I get what you're trying to say. And anyway, it looks good on you, so if Jared can't appreciate that, then he's missing out. Not that he won't appreciate it. Because he will. And if he doesn't, I'll take him to the carpet on your behalf."

Jensen arches an eyebrow with more than a healthy degree of skepticism. "You," he says. " _You_ are going to take my six-five, nigh on two-hundred-pound boyfriend to the carpet to defend my honor? Meesh, I'm pretty sure he could throw you over his shoulders and carry you back to his cave without breaking a sweat."

This time, Misha does roll his eyes—he doesn't even care that Jensen can see him do it because, "Well, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?"

Jensen huffs and supposes that it is—"But that doesn't mean that I'd forgive you for landing your ass in the emergency room when my honor doesn't need defending, okay? So how about you don't do that?"

*******

Because Mom's flight and Jared's get in around the same time, Jensen and Misha head over to the airport together in Jensen's car. Mostly, Misha spends the whole drive over trying not to pay attention to the little things he notices, like how the car creaks when Jensen climbs into the driver's seat and how his belly's edging closer and closer to the steering wheel—not quite wedged up against it yet, getting close to that milestone but not there yet, probably only because Jensen's moved his seat back some slightly outrageous amount.

Which Misha can't entirely blame him for, all things considered—feeling all of his paunch buck up against the wheel would probably be uncomfortable, at the very least—but it does rob him of the opportunity to ogle Jensen all squeezed into a tight space and struggling.

In the interests of keeping himself distracted, Misha tries to think about anything else but Jensen, anything else but how he helped get Jensen within fifteen pounds of the three-hundred marker. He thinks about Vicki and how maybe he should've volunteered to help her tidy up her place for Mom and Dad instead of going to pick them up from the airport. He thinks about Richard and how they have another date tonight, one that's going to involve Richard meeting Misha's parents—which might possibly be moving a bit too fast, but then again, it's not like Misha and Richard are novices where each other is concerned. He thinks about Mark and about how he's kind of softened, now that they don't need their play-therapy sessions anymore.

"I think you're doing that thing where you think too goddamn much," Jensen says in the middle of the baggage claim, when he gets it in his head to ask what Misha's thinking about and subsequently gets an earful about nothing special in particular, then asked what he thinks about it all. "I _think_ that you need to relax a little—it's not even _your_ boyfriend coming home after almost six months away, so what're you getting all bent out of shape about?"

"Sort of wringing my hands over this whole visit from my parents business," Misha says with a shrug. "Because it's like, well, if I'm not really doing better enough for them, what're they going to do—because they could always pull something out, y'know? But mostly it's just that I get bent out of shape about _everything_ , remember? You putting up with it's just an occupational hazard of being my friend."

Aside from the obvious problems that this causes for Misha, he doesn't really get how this is any different from the way that things have always been for him and Jensen—or why Jensen feels the need to wander up behind him and wrap him up in a tight hug. Not that he has any protests to raise about that, especially not the part where Jensen lets him lean back into it—or the part where Misha gets to sink into all of Jensen's warm, soft pudge—but liking the thing doesn't mean that Misha really understands it any more. He just doesn't argue because he hardly sees the point. Where is the sense—where is there any kind of sense—in pitching a fit over something nice that admittedly soothes his fraying nerves?

At least they don't have to spend that long just waiting around, even if it's kind of nice, not really having to worry about everything for once.

Jared's suitcases show up on the trolley before they've even gotten a glimpse of him—which Misha only knows because Jensen recognizes the strings of Mardi Gras beads that Jared's fixed to the handles. And when Jensen wanders off to collect them, leaving Misha behind to guard their jackets, Misha can't help taking a moment just to appreciate the view: even the clothes that fit Jensen now are pretty tight on him, hugging his round belly and his wide hips. His jeans technically fit him fine, but the rolls of fat squashing down on the waistband tell another story entirely, as does the denim straining around his ass. They tell a story wherein maybe Jensen could stand to get another size up after all. He's not just chubby now, but truly fat—and Misha finds himself glancing around to everywhere else, just to keep his thoughts clean of anything sexual about his best friend.

His glancing around brings him to the escalator, right on time to see Jared coming down—and Misha picks him out immediately. Even with the changes in his appearance, it's impossible to miss Jared Padalecki in a crowd, if mostly because no one else is usually that fucking tall. From a distance, he doesn't even look all that different—he's still enormous, with the same floppy brown hair and megawatt grin—but as Jared gets closer, Misha can't help smirking to himself. For one thing, Jared's jacket is obviously a size or two too small; he hasn't bothered zipping it up and the sides of his zipper could probably never get around the round little tummy that strains the fabric of his t-shirt well past its limit. Either Jared's unaware of how his t-shirt's riding up or he just doesn't give a shit, because he leaves Misha biting his lip over the shadow of his bellybutton and the wide strip of skin that's left exposed.

Even his cheeks and thighs have each filled out a little—nowhere near as much as Jensen's have, but decidedly enough that Misha notices. And he probably shouldn't watch as Jared comes up behind Jensen and taps him on the shoulder—he probably shouldn't watch because, even if they're going to be super-public about their PDA, he could do them the favor of not paying attention to them right now—but Misha knows as soon as Jensen turns around, as soon as they end up staring at each other instead of playing tonsil-hockey: he really, really needs to watch this. He'll fucking kick himself if he doesn't get to see what happens.

For a moment—one hellaciously long moment—all they do is stare at each other, drag their eyes up and down each other's bodies—but finally, Jared opens up his enormous, unfiltered mouth: "Oh my God," he says as though this is the single best thing in the world, beaming down at Jensen. "Babe, you… you got so _fat_ …"

"Like _you_ can talk!" Jensen's cheeks flush pink and, playfully, he swats at Jared's belly. Misha can see it bounce and jiggle from here—and he can only imagine how good it must feel under Jensen's hands as he starts rubbing it. "I mean, Jesus Christ, Jay, what did you do, eat Oxford?"

"It kinda felt like it, some nights, yeah—Misha runs a pretty tight ship when he's feeding somebody up—"

"Wait a minute, what? He helped you out, too?" Jensen looks away from Jared, over to Misha—and Misha finds that the only thing he can really do is shrug. It's not like he's going to shout at them by way of explaining himself. If Jensen really needs to talk about it, they'll handle it when they get home—and judging from how he goes right back to sinking his hands into Jared's stomach, he probably doesn't need to talk all that much.

"So, how much did you gain, anyway?" Jensen says and licks his lips. Even from this distance, Misha can make out the devious glint in his eyes. "I mean, the answer is pretty obviously, 'a lot'—but how much?"

Jared shrugs and smiles that huge, stupidly in love smile that he always saves for Jensen. "Almost sixty pounds? I mean, I weighed in at two-forty-seven before my flight left, and I was at one-ninety… How about you, Chunky? Those size-forty jeans are probably too small now, right?"

"They've been too small for a couple months now, yeah." Jensen smiles right back up at Jared. "But I'm up to two-eighty-eight as of a couple hours ago, so… sixty-five pounds, since me and Misha started actually keeping track."

Jared's entire face lights up. "If we weren't in an airport, I'd fuck your fat ass right here and now." Which is probably Misha's cue to look somewhere else before they start making out.

And as he glances away from them to find Mom and Dad coming down the escalator, Misha's certain that he hears Jared saying, "So where do you think about heading next, goals wise? Maybe three-hundred for you and two-sixty for me? That sound good?"

Jensen chuckles under his breath and tells his boyfriend, "That sounds great to me, babe. Like, absolutely perfect."


End file.
